


The Auror, the Toymaker, His Ego and Their Courtship

by TheMostePotente



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco's toymaking livelihood is threatened by a murderer hell-bent on destroying his life, along comes Potter to save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Auror, the Toymaker, His Ego and Their Courtship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillalicious/gifts).



> Originally written for the 2011 HD_Holidays exchange fest.

I haven't slept in three days.

I haven't eaten in as much either, so you can easily imagine my ire at that bitch nicking my toast triangle.

"Would you like some toast to go with your marmalade?" she asks me. She scrapes off the excess and deposits it back on my plate.

I can only sit and watch, like it's happening to someone else.

I suppose I should acknowledge her thoughtfulness. The affectation, of course, not the thievery of my marmalade. 

All right, so I used a disproportionate amount. That's only a crime in six countries. Besides, it's not like I need to watch my figure. Nick-something-Greek still hasn't returned my owl, the gorgeous bastard.

I'm too tired for witty repartee, so I stick out my tongue and hope for the best.

She merely smiles, and I know what's coming. "Oh no, we tried that darling, don't you remember? You said you didn't care for the taste."

Blaise's snort is undignified, but if our places were reversed, I'd be even less kind.

My empty stomach lurches, as if that's even possible, and I push my plate away. Leave it to Pansy to put me off my breakfast.

I sit and sulk until Blaise shares at least half of his plate with me. I employ the prat so he'd better. Matter of fact, I employ Pansy, too. I should make her work this weekend as penance. 

Oh, who am I kidding? She'd just owl in sick. 

I tell myself I'm going to be tougher on them. Be their boss and not their friend. But Pansy and Blaise keep me sane through the Christmas hols.

See, Blaise is my business's attorney. There's even a rumour going around that he oversaw the insuring of my hands for a ridiculous amount of Galleons. Pansy is my PR rep, the face of my business. She deals with everyone I don't wish to, thus freeing up more of my time to create. 

Which brings me to said business, _Malfoy and Son_ , and to my career, really. I'm certain most people wouldn't have expected me to choose this type of profession, but oddly it suits. I'm good with my hands. Very good, in fact, and I've a keen mind. I have Severus to thank for that. He's the whetstone to my sharp wit.

Most would-be suitors are turned off by what I do, though, I like to think they're simply intimidated. I could've just as easily been a Potioneer or a professional Quidditch player. I have the skill sets for both. But there's something uplifting about what I do, and the fact that I do it best that brings me personal fulfilment. And I am the best.

Pansy interrupts my train of thought with a whoop of delight. Blaise has handed her this morning's _Prophet_. I use this disruption to cram two sausages down my throat. 

"Oh my," she says, her grin insatiable. "Hambleighs has had another recall on one of their products. Unforeseen consequences. Tsk tsk, and so close to the holidays."

Blaise very delicately dabs at the corners of his mouth. "Their stocks will plummet."

Mine will skyrocket, I muse.

Blaise must have somehow heard me. I'm unsurprised at his manoeuvrings. "It's a good day for the market, il mio tesoro."

Christ, I hate when Blaise speaks Italian. I don't know how he manages to cheapen a romance language even further. 

"Indeed," Pansy coos.

I don't have to look under the table to know those two are having foot sex. I'd say that's my cue for sleep.

I stand, and they don't even bother to look at me.

"Right. I've been up for the past seventy-two hours. I'm having a shower, a proper wank and a week-long lie-in."

"Off you go, then," they both say in unison. Pansy shoos me off to emphasise they want privacy. As if I couldn't see that.

I take four toast triangles and the jar of marmalade with me. One of the triangles I stuff unceremoniously into my mouth. Fuck Pansy's looking out for my waist.

If you haven't managed by now to guess what it is I do for a living, I'll tell you. I'm a toy maker.

Oh, and if you thought I was joking about Blaise insuring my hands for a ridiculous amount of Galleons, you'd be right.

Blaise has insured my hands for a _really_ ridiculous amount of Galleons.

Welcome to my world.

(| M & S |) 

After the war, all that remained of Knockturn Alley was demolitioned. Surprisingly, that occurred without much complaint. Diagon Alley was lengthened threefold. My shoppe is part of the new expansion and doing quite well despite ongoing prejudices. People want the best, and I give them exactly what they want.

Nothing is ever mass-produced in my shoppe. No twins of any one product exist. If two separate customers want the same type of toy, I distinguish the pieces with subtle differences. I both design and craft. 

I'm busy throughout the year making birthday gifts, but the Christmas hols are especially demanding. Luckily, I have a competent staff. Pansy and Blaise are at the top of the _Malfoy and Son_ food chain. I also employ an apprentice, an administrative assistant and a personal assistant, all of which I'll address in due course.

I'm certain everyone wonders how I fell into this business. It started years ago when I was searching for educational toys for Scorpius and found none that met my standards. All right, so my standards are unusually high, but I mean, how difficult could it have been to conceive an age-appropriate potions set? My godfather suggested I create one myself, and from there the ideas just kept coming. I boast several accepted patents despite my rigid assurances that no two alike products exist. 

I've been featured in several popular publications, have been lauded a brilliant up-and-comer, and have been at the top of wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor list two years running. 

Despite all of my admirable attributes, I am still woefully single after my divorce three years ago. Astoria's been very supportive of my endeavours, but even she's moved on with a Spanish dignitary of royal descent. I heartily approve of her choice. 

I myself have been through a string of failed relationships, most notably the one with my father. After all this time we still haven't made peace. He insists I should have become a politician or a Ministry official, and really, I've no stomach for either position. I'm much happier putting others in front of myself, allowing media-hungry berks like Potter and Co. to act as buffers between myself and the outside world. 

My godfather has always been more of a father figure anyway. Even from behind his gilded frame, he counsels me in ways my father never did, or could. His portrait hangs in my office, and he rarely leaves it, barring the exceptional occasions he meets with Headmistress McGonagall on Hogmanay.

Not surprisingly, it was Severus who found me my apprentice. His second cousin, Calpurnia Prince, assists in some of the more tedious processes of toy making. She has a deft hand, and I trust her not to make a shamble of things. Unfortunately, I'd made the mistake of sleeping with her once when I was highly inebriated, and more often than not she strikes me as a subtle reminder of my drunken idiocy. How we've both managed to keep this from everyone is a mystery the poor Sphinx couldn't riddle out. 

I suppose I could say that in my defence, because I've a laughable social life, I tend to fall into bed with those I'm always around. My administrative assistant, Julian Wentworth, was my favourite mistake. Last Christmas, he prettied himself up with tinsel and faerie lights and stood in my storefront window after hours mimicking a Douglas Fir. I'm not proud that I plied him with tainted eggnog earlier, but Merlin and Morgaine saw fit to bless me with a merry virgin and a Christmas pageant all my own that day. 

To my credit, I never did sleep with my personal assistant, Simon Sutcliffe. Despite the rather large bulge I've hardly noticed, he's a bit too spotty for my tastes, and he has a nervous tic that well… frightens me. Of the five persons I employ, he's probably the only one I should have slept with. I feel guilty giving him mere tokens of gold and silver for all the shit work I give him to do. He's fetched me take-away, done my Christmas shopping, cleaned and pressed my robes, and has even mopped up my vomit when I saw fit to lie in it unawares. A pity he's a bit of a mad cross between Percy Weasley and Gilderoy Lockhart appearance-wise.

Touché. I suppose I'll never find a balance between work and not-work. Or find a suitable mate. Of course, I am the wizarding world's best toy maker. I suppose if all else fails, I might piecemeal myself a lover from spare parts.

(| M & S |) 

I'm basking in the throes of a much-needed haircut when my father stops by with Scorpius. He's clever, my father. He nudges Scorpius along and then does most of the talking, ergo lecturing. My father knows I can't raise my voice or my wand to him, so he clearly has the upper hand to ridicule my choices. The Malfoy in the title of my business refers to me, of course, and the notion that I might pass along the business to Scorpius if he shows an interest in what I do. My son will always be free to make his own choices, but a father can hope, yes?

Admittedly, I may have insinuated as much as a stab to my father. You see, my choices were already made for me, and I wanted to show him how he should have conducted himself as a responsible adult. Instead, Scorpius leaves with a self-inflating balloon, my father, his self-inflated ego. What I have to show for not losing my temper is a haircut much shorter than I intended, because the idea of longer hair makes me utterly nauseous. I will _not_ become Lucius Malfoy.

I send Simon and his golden shears away to fetch me Indian take-away, and not ten minutes later, I hear the peal of bells above my shoppe door. 

"Not finished?" I accuse, thinking my father's returned. "Just getting warmed up, then?" When I turn around, there are three Aurors standing in my vestibule. 

"Draco Malfoy," I hear in that all-too-familiar voice.

"Or a reasonable facsimile," I answer. "I donate regularly to back-alley apothecaries. Dodgy economy and all." 

"Think that's funny, do you?" he demands, stepping forward. He very nearly breaches my bubble of personal space. I'm still taller than he is. That never fails to bring me satisfaction.

I let him assume the worst with an unfinished thought of mine. "As a matter of fact…"

We have a stare-down of sorts. He's missed a line of hair along his chin this morning with a half-arsed shave. This also brings me satisfaction. "What do you want, Potter? I'm a busy man."

Potter wastes no time in getting to the point, and now there's at least one thing I don't hate about him. "Where were you last night around eleven thirty-five p.m.?"

This sounds suspiciously like an accusation of sorts, veiled in the form of a routine question. "Here, working on a commission." There's a pregnant pause as Potter takes that into account. "Why?"

"Are you aware that, Rexford Rothschild, Chairman and CEO of Hambleighs, was found murdered last night?"

My eyebrow arches up involuntarily into my hairline. First a crippling recall and now my arch nemesis taken out? I hesitate to call this luck. "Of course not, Potter. What, you don't think I had something to do with this, do you?"

Potter looks confident. "You had motive."

"So did a lot of other people I'm sure," I offer. "Namely his wife."

Potter tilts his head in an annoying manner. "What would you know about that, Malfoy?"

"I might be cloistered, but I still read the society pages. Besides," I continue, "it's not like anyone needs to make an effort to tarnish Hambleighs' name. They do perfectly fine on their own. Another recall. Check last night's _Prophet_ if you don't believe me."

Potter turns and nods to one of his lackeys, and they all file out. Everyone, that is, except Potter. His smile is practically blinding.

I narrow my eyes. "There's something you're not telling me, Potter."

"Indeed," he says, offering his arm for a Side-Along. Potter's matured a lot in the ensuing years. He sounds a bit like Severus when he says that word.

In a show of defiance, I fold my arms across my chest. "Are you taking me into custody?"

He sticks his elbow out further to emphasise his point. "Not as such, Malfoy, but your cooperation is expected and appreciated."

Now the four-eyed fuck resembles my father, in a fashion. 

I take his arm and rue the day it wasn't his hand instead all those years ago.

(| M & S |) 

When the moment of queasiness passes, I expect to find myself at the Ministry. Instead, I'm standing outside a posh residence in Chelsea. I know this because Blaise and Pansy share a home out here, and I recognise the architectural styles.

Potter doesn't even wait for me to collect my bearings. He drags me by the sleeve of my robe up the steps and through the front door. The décor is modern but overstated, indicative of new money. I reason this must be Rothschild's home.

Potter lets me go with a brusque shove but indicates for me to follow him with a wave of his hand. I absolutely shouldn't be noticing this now, in the midst of a crisis, but Potter's not wearing his wedding ring. I silently wonder if this is a recent development before I'm yanked into the neighbouring room.

There, phased between two walls, is Rothschild. The look on his face makes me visibly cringe. No doubt his death was painful.

Potter shows me a bag marked 'evidence.' "We found this in his grasp." It's a piece of my special chalk meant for games such as Hide and Seek. "Obviously, the spells have been tampered with."

"Obviously," I answer around a swallow. 

"Tell me how this works," Potter says, handing the bag back to the evidence tech.

"Simple spatial magics," I begin. "It allows you to draw a door on any walled surface not already built around a door or window. It then deposits the drawer into the adjoining room. If no adjoining room exists, say it dead-ends, it boomerangs you back to the point of origin. I designed it for more challenging games of Hide and Seek. Harmless, really."

"Not in his case," Potter points out. He shrugs out of his heavy, crimson robe and a lesser creature is right behind him to pick it up and move it out of Potter's way. Apparently, he's somewhat of a demigod amongst the MLE masses. My next thought is that Potter will perform nothing short of a miracle by pulling Rothschild from the wall using only an Expelliarmus.

As it turns out, Rothschild doesn't budge an inch. But I knew this. I try not to look too smug.

"Seems the _original_ spells are keyed only to _your_ magic," Potter tells me. "I was afraid this might be the case."

"I'll need another piece of my chalk from my shoppe if you want Rothschild out of the wall unscathed," I say.

Potter looks at me with such intensity, I'd swear he's looking right through me. "Fine," he grits back. "Aurors Darling and Kensington will escort you to and fro."

His trained monkeys crowd around me. "What, not you, Potter? You’ve such a deft hand at Side-Along."

A muscle in Potter's cheek twitches. "Go now. Be-f…"

We're gone before Potter can spit out the fricative. He's scarily like Severus in that regard, enunciating his threats syllabically. I'm back in time to see the opposing cheek muscle twitch. He's missed me, I can tell.

Potter gives me the go ahead to draw a second door around the first. I exit out the other end where Rothschild's mangled body is taken from me. I feel more than a bit unsettled, but I force a Calming Spell on myself. I bless my Black genes for my greater resolve. 

"You have what you need, Potter," I say, wondering if that involves my detainment, too. I hand over the second piece of chalk as well. No doubt, they'll want to make comparisons. 

"We have what we need, yes," he confirms, but his encroachment suggests otherwise. "I could take you into custody, but that would require more paperwork than I care to fill out. Would you consent to a Tracking Cuff?" 

I nod resignedly, and he locks one in place. It glows the sickly green of a Morsmordre around my wrist. 

"I'll be in touch," he says, eyeing me above the rims of his glasses. He looks about as tired as I feel.

I Disapparate out of there so I can lock up and forget this day ever happened. As soon as I touch down, I sick up all over the floor.

Blame the speed at which I leave, or the fact that my world just got turned upside down. It matters not.

Either way, it doesn't help that Malfoys have delicate constitutions. 

I wipe my lips on the back of my hand and sigh.

Sutcliffe is not going to be happy come morning.

(| M & S |) 

It's not until late afternoon the following day that Potter decides to grace me with his presence. Unlike me, he looks as though he's had a pleasant night's sleep and at least two square meals. I've done nothing all day but pace around like a caged tiger. Right now I have the concentration of a stinging nettle.

When Potter approaches me, the glow of the bracelet fades to a dull grey before falling off completely. I rub my wrist reflexively as if it were a manacle and not some ornate piece of magical jewellery.

Potter's smile is ingratiating. "You can relax, Malfoy. I'm not here to arrest you."

I let go a breath I don't know I'm holding. My focus starts to creep back through a fog I hesitate to call real fear. "That's a relief," I say. More of one than I'd ever like to admit.

"My guess is that someone Polyjuiced him or herself as you and committed the murder to frame you. Possibly an employee of Hambleighs. We're still investigating." 

I run a hand through my shortened locks, and it suddenly occurs to me; the haircut. Sutcliffe? It's too bold an execution for a bloke afraid of his own reflection, I puzzle out. Besides, I'm too embarrassed to admit out loud that I may be dismissing him as a suspect based solely on his adoration of me. 

"Am I…"

"Safe?" Potter shakes his head while he finishes my sentence. I'm relieved to know we're thinking along the same lines. "Likely not."

I sit down, feeling defeated all over again. "What are your thoughts?"

Potter sits as well. "I've recruited Hermione to help me. She's on board as a profiler, and she thinks the killer will strike again. I tend to agree."

"Granger's working this, too?" My sigh is louder than I anticipate. "What do you suggest, Potter?"

He kind of half-smiles, half-frowns. "You're not going to like this."

I throw my hands up, exasperated. Metaphorically, I hear the warning hum of a descending swarm. I'm about to be stung. "Oh, try me."

Potter mutters something about being warm and then shrugs out of his robe. He's stalling, the dickhead.

When Potter's answer doesn't come quick enough, I poke the hornet's nest again. "Well?" 

"That I stick close by you for the time being," he says. "I have potential suspects to interview anyhow."

All right, so that was more of a kick. I feel the phantom itch of several stings. I stand in a heated rage. "No, no, no! Absolutely not! I have a business to run!"

Potter stands as well, matching my volume. "It's not like I want to baby-sit your arse, Malfoy! I'm trying to keep you safe! I'm trying to do my bloody job here!"

"As if you could!" I huff. To agitate him further, I take one of his sentiments utterly out of context. "Only my arse, Potter? You don't fancy what's attached?"

He looks at me as though I've gone completely mental, and yeah, the odds are definitely in his favour.

A rush of adrenaline surges through me, and my cheeks heat. I'm sixteen again, and it feels brilliant. We've lost none of that spark. 

Hit me, you prat, I mentally suggest.

"You're not going to goad me into striking you, Malfoy."

Shame, really. Ah well, Potter's heard me at the very least.

"And furthermore…"

I arch a brow waiting for elaboration that never comes. Potter's never been very articulate. I can practically hear the dot dot dot of his ellipses.

"Well?" he says, with all the enthusiasm of a sodden lump of gillyweed.

Disappointed, I'm forced to concede that our moment's passed. I'm slowly feeling my age again. 

"Fine. Whatever," I say, suddenly bored. "Tail me like a shadow. I don't give a fuck."

Potter actually looks happy about this, which leaves me with the alternative. He takes off his robe as if I've just invited him to tea, and I suppose I'm obligated now. I wonder what we'll chat about at this point, and that's answered with the awkward shift of two wands.

So, the rumours are true.

I play at naïve. Mostly because I enjoy giving Potter the impression that he's smarter than I am. "Why are you carrying two wands?"

"Oh," Potter starts. "I can double-cast."

The idiot even blushes, and I further this charade by looking slightly impressed. "Really now? That's quite extraordinary, Potter. Was it very hard to learn?"

Potter's still merrily unaware. "No, just took a bit of run-through." 

I smile. This is way too easy. I count backwards from ten.

At two and a half, his eyes narrow. "You're having me on, Malfoy."

"Perhaps a little." Potter looks slightly murderous, so I change the subject. I don't want to be on the receiving end of _two_ spells. "So, listen, Potter. I was thinking."

"That's a dangerous thing," he quips.

His reply is so cliché, I actually feel real pity for him. Beyond that, Potter doesn't even indulge my whimsy. This is probably why I don't feel guilty in the slightest for being an opportunistic bastard. "I'll strike a bargain with you. I'll show your children the best Christmas ever if you teach me how to double-cast."

Potter mulls this over before shaking his head. "I don't know, Malfoy. It takes real dedication, and I have the patience of a flobberworm. Besides, my kids haven't shown much of an interest in toys lately. James has been asking for a broom, and Lily's more about books."

Lesser men would accept Potter's ambivalence and walk away, but I'm having none of it. You don't get ahead in this life without some push-pull.

"Nonsense. Everyone loves toys. Just because you led a sheltered childhood shut up in a broom closet…"

Potter's fist hits me square in the chin, and I stumble back, tripping over an empty crate. I fall much harder than either of us anticipates, and I'm certain I look a spectacular idiot cradling my jaw from the floor.

To my surprise, Potter grins and offers me a hand up. I take it with a pained whimper. "All right, Malfoy, we have a deal." 

Mother always said I knew what buttons to push. I try not to look so pleased with myself, but I fail miserably and grin back.

Potter and I seem to be making nice. And maybe, just maybe, my dick agrees.

(| M & S |) 

Despite my association with an ongoing murder investigation, my business doesn't suffer as much as I expect it to. Purebloods are not as affected by death it turns out. Even doing Potter's three projects pro bono helps me more than it harms me. Come next year, I'll still be able to produce the same quality work only twice as fast.

I have advice to seek, so I consider the man who would've made a fine father. I take two long drags, and then make a show of passing him my cigarette. He indulges in all his vices vicariously through me. I'm such a noble godson. I'm going to hate becoming a portrait.

I consider a trick he's taught me, but then think better of it. He'll get a treat if I benefit from his counsel. "What do you think?" 

"I think," he repeats, looking me straight in the eyes. "That we were both…"

"Yes?" I say, trying to hurry along the process with animated hand gestures.

His eyes widen before he says, "Framed."

My mouth falls open, and he laughs. Something I haven't heard or seen him do since I threw my mushy peas at him as a child.

I suppose it's immaterial, but I still hate mushy peas. His laughter, however, is something of a comfort. I only wish it wasn't now when I need answers.

"I'm in a bit over my head. Can we be serious, Severus?"

A fire burns in the earth of his eyes. The kind that keeps Hell ablaze. "Never say my name next to that mangy cur's."

Fortunately for me, I'm fireproof. "Oh, get over your childish rivalry already with my second cousin. I need your help."

He lifts a brow to remind me of my courtesies.

"Please," I add with a sincere smile.

"Very well," he concedes with a seat. "How may I be of service?"

"Your thoughts, as always."

He folds his hands in his lap and keeps perfectly still. "Potter is like a loaded die. He'll find you your killer, but there will be a heavy price to pay, Draco. Are you certain you wish to pay it?"

I sit on the edge of my desk and take another drag off my cigarette. My answer comes with a cloud of smoke. "I am."

His gaze falls to my chest, and I know what he's about to insinuate. "Remember, I'm not there to intervene anymore. I understand the boy can double-cast."

The word 'boy' doesn't escape my notice. It's like time hasn't moved for Severus. I wonder if he still thinks of me as a teenager.

"He can," I say. "And it will be of great benefit to me."

"See that it is," he says simply.

I have about three more drags to my cigarette before it needs to be extinguished, so I pause a moment. "What do I do now?"

His reply comes quickly, as if anticipated. "All things proceed as they should."

I sigh. For a handful of coins, I could have received this advice with a side of mu shu pork. "Thank you, Severus." I stand, and he walks to the front of his portrait.

His plea's a quiet one.

I really want to say 'no', but I can't. "Hebridian Black or Chinese Fireball?"

"Chinese Fireball."

With my three remaining drags, I fabricate a dragon with the curls of smoke. It breathes a billowing cloud out its nostrils and thrashes its tail. 

All Severus can do is watch helplessly, and once again I promise myself to live each day of my life fully.

There's a loud rap on my door, and I hurriedly disperse the mist with my fingers. I extinguish the butt, and get the fuck out of there yesterday.

Severus falls back into the shadows of his portrait, but not before I see the sadness writ in his face. Whoever thought Severus Snape wanted to die for a lot of causes didn't know the man by half.

(| M & S |) 

He's invited my staff to breakfast, not to break bread, but to collectively interview them without their awareness.

Potter's meticulous and clever, I'll give him that. I'm sure it's contributed to his success as an Auror. However, I wish I had something positive to say about his table manners.

He's eaten his weight in sausages even before I've finished my poached eggs, and frankly, I don't know how he stays fit. Mind you now, Potter was never what I'd considered beefcake, but he'd certainly earned the status of calfcake at the very least.

His five Sickle haircut drives me positively spare. It does nothing to accentuate his looks, except perhaps to complement his five Sickle wardrobe. I feel as though I should take him to see my tailor on principle. A man should own at least _one_ bespoke suit. We won't mention how many I own.

Calpurnia's the only one who declines Potter's summons. However, she shows up long enough to strike me before pilfering a toast triangle. 

Potter nearly chokes on a sausage, but Pansy's there to give him a fair whacking. Good to know that no one at my table will ever succumb to the day's most important meal. I shove a glass of water at him, and he takes it obligingly.

"What the hell was that for?" he asks, possibly a bit too soon after catching his breath. Pansy gives him another ample whack.

I dab at the corners of my mouth before setting my napkin down on my plate. "The slap, the whack or the water?"

He turns murderous eyes on Pansy before answering me. "The slap, you git."

"Oh, that," I laugh, playing it off like it's nothing. "Just something I did a while ago."

"But I've been with you for two days, and you've done nothing that obnoxious."

Blaise adds his two Sickles. "This was years ago, Potter. Calpurnia's a Prince through and through. She doesn't forgive so easily."

"Or forget," Pansy reminds me with a wink.

Not thirty seconds after this occurs, Calpurnia's back. She hovers over me until I meet her gaze. It doesn't take a genius to know what's coming.

This slap has a bit more bite to it than the last. She walks away smug, and I ogle her retreating arse as a poor means of getting even.

Before Potter can even enquire, I let him in on the reason why. "It's for something I _might_ do, all right?"

He holds up his hands in defence. "I wasn't going to ask."

Laughter breaks out, and the bastard joins in with the rest of the turncoats. Two days he's been here and already he blends like poly-wool. I'm not in the mood for this right now, so I excuse myself. He doesn't need me present to conduct his little interviews.

Pansy picks the perfect time, of course, to salt my wounds. "Darling, about the Knutcracker? Can't make it this year. Blaise and I have plans."

She's breaking a five-year tradition to dish in some sluttish red-velvet ensemble, but I don't feel much like arguing. "Fine, whatever," I reply. "I'll ask mother." I step away for a much needed fag.

It's freezing outside, but I can't be bothered to cast a Warming Charm. I should be the poster boy for MacGillicuddy's. They'll find my remains come spring thaw, but I'll still have that fucking cigarette between my fingers with my lips pursed in orgasmic exhalation. I really should quit, but I need a flaw. 

I'm forming a Snitch with the curls of smoke when I hear footfalls from behind. "Mind if I join you? When you left, I became their next victim."

Potter a victim? Of fashion, to be certain. His collar sticks up untidily, and his shirt is beyond rumpled-looking. The _Prophet_ need only snap his photo, and his fashion faux pas may threaten to go pandemic. My son's generation is far too impressionable for my liking.

"Nobody's stopping you," I say between puffs. My Snitch whirls around Potter's head before dissipating. "Pansy sharpen her claws on you, then?"

"Not quite," he replies.

Potter takes the cigarette from my fingers, and all I can do is watch him. He takes a drag and doesn't hack up a lung in the process. Colour me very impressed. 

A bundle of nervous energy, I fiddle with the silver buttons on my coat. "Then what?"

He hands me back my fag and grins at me like we've just went ten rounds in the sack. "She's invited me to see the Knutcracker with you in her stead."

"Has she now?" Pansy's a dead woman, I muse. "And did you accept her generous invitation?"

"I did, except that I have no idea what the Knutcracker is."

Could Potter be any more of a fucking philistine? "It's a ballet, Potter. About two men whose fortunes change."

"Oh," he says. "Sounds interesting."

I resume my chain-smoking. "It's abysmal, actually."

Instantly, I'm sorry I say that. Potter's always been precocious. Now he'll want to see how awful.

"Dress robes, I'm assuming?"

"Look, you don't have to go. I'll go alone if necessary. It was just something…"

He tilts his head in that way I can't stand. "Yes?"

"Just something Severus took me to see when my own father was too busy. It's a silly way to honour his memory I know."

Potter pinches the cigarette from my fingers again. I can't tear my gaze away from his lips when they form a tight O around the shaft. "Not true. Still, I suppose you could smash a flask in his remembrance."

Now Potter's merely being facetious, though I'm ashamed to admit it's rather sexy on him.

"Fine," I capitulate. "We'll discuss it more as the time approaches." 

Potter tries to mimic my lip movements to form a Snitch, but the end result looks more like a misshapen cauldron cake. I genuinely hope it's not a prelude to his kissing technique. Mortified with myself, I change the subject. "So, you didn't get much in the way of interviewing done."

There's a mad gleam in his eye. "Didn't I?"

There's the Dementor's Kiss and then there's what Auror interrogators call the Brain Kiss. It's merely fancy speak for Occlumency. "Some might consider that manoeuvre dubious." 

"We're trying to finger a killer, Malfoy," he reasons. "And as Head Auror, I'm given broad discretionary powers."

"Right," I say, eyeing my cigarette. I suppose I could light another, but then why should I? "And what did you find out snooping in my friends' heads?"

Potter's second attempt at a Snitch resembles a squashed treacle tart. I wonder how many possible baked goods he'll go through before he meets with success.

"Can't tell you that. However," he says, pointing in the direction of the sleeve I stow my wand. "If you were able to push past my mental barriers, I'd gladly share. You did study these arts with your aunt, yeah?"

I nod but imply nothing further. I never engage in games I know I can't win. "You prevail again, Potter. You know I can't breach your defences."

"Fair enough." He hands me back my cigarette nearly smoked down to the butt, and waves away what looks like a pumpkin pastie in defeat. "I will say this, though. Everyone has motive."

I'm unsurprised at hearing this. Even Blaise has been harbouring grudges since our second year at Hogwarts. "Anything else?" I press. I look up into the sky and notice it's snowing. I wonder what foul omen will follow.

Potter immediately casts an Impervious on his glasses. "You can stop asking questions."

In response to this, I use the cigarette's last remaining puffs to create a crude rendering complete with a jagged scar. I extinguish the butt underneath the toe of my boot and start to head inside. Something gives me pause, however, and I turn around.

Kingsley's Patronus stands before Potter. The words all blur together, but I don't need to hear them to know there's been another murder.

(| M & S |) 

Potter and I arrive at the scene together in Godric's Hollow. I could care less what people think of this, and judging by the look on Potter's face, I'm guessing that he cares even less than I do.

Granger is there, surveying all of the evidence. Weasley is right beside her, ever an annoying and freckled distraction, interviewing the tearful widow. Once I'm spotted, she's escorted further down the cobblestones. I don't want to think about the brouhaha my presence would incite. 

This time the victim is Vice President of Operations, Blandon Beauregard. I can't be certain, but from where I'm standing it looks like an infantry of toy action figures attacked him. I'm slightly embarrassed to report I'm amongst the pocket-sized doppelgangers. I'm one of the remaining still shrieking his battle cry. 

Potter looks at me and I shrug. "Well, at least his death wasn't as painful as Rothschild's."

"They had a skirmish on his face," Potter not-so-gently reminds me. "And why am I trapped and flailing under Merlin?" He crouches down and examines his likeness. "This doesn't even look like me."

"On the contrary," I grin. "Unruly hair. Ridiculous glasses. Stupid scar. The resemblance is uncanny."

Our repartee is cockblocked by Granger. "Some of us have work to do," she says, more to Harry than to me. 

I know I have a scathing retort somewhere on my tongue, but it's forgotten the moment Greg barrels into me. He still Apparates like teenagers fuck, sloppy and with little control. I nearly trip on an uneven stone.

"Wha-- What are you doing here?" I ask, righting myself with Potter's help. 

"You didn't show up to the pub, so I came looking for you."

"It's quarter of ten," I remind him. Greg's always been much better at keeping appointments than time. Still, I don't know how he mistakes am for pm.

"Right," Greg laughs, turning to leave. He very narrowly escapes battle with the figure of Greta Catchlove, who's prancing about and jabbing the air with a tiny wedge of cheese. Yes, I did it for a lark. The killer obviously shares my sense of humour. 

"And kindly escort Goyle out of here before he contaminates the crime scene." Potter takes this opportunity to throw his weight around a bit, and I fall in line like a row of dominoes. Oddly enough, I don't want him to lose face amongst his subordinates with my cheek. And now, he'll owe me a favour. 

"Of course," I say, moving Greg out of the area cordoned off with a glowing yellow line. He stands and watches as I corral all of the lingering action figures. They heed my command and follow behind me, like rats to a piper, into a container so they can be curse broken. 

While I'm doing this, Potter chats with Granger and Weasley. It doesn't take a Diviner to know they're talking about me from Potter's sidelong glances. He's as obvious as a troll's erection. 

Once I'm finished, I see just how unrecognisable Beauregard's face is. He'll have to have a closed casket ceremony. I turn away in horror. Potter's right there when I cover my mouth with my hand.

He places a hand on my back, and that makes me queasy in a different way. "All right, Malfoy?"

I splay my fingers a bit so he'll understand me better. "No, Potter. No I'm not. I saw brains."

His hand slides a bit lower, and I squeak like a dormouse. "Can't imagine they were Goyle's," he laughs.

I look over at Greg, and he's holding the tiny snow globe he carries with him everywhere. The fool has it next to his ear like he's listening for the ocean. I can't argue Potter's logic.

I reconsider. It really isn't too early for cocktails.

(| M & S |) 

I've had two more clients cancel their orders. My workload is getting lighter and lighter by the day. Whoever's fucking with my life needs to be spit-roasted by dragon flame. The worst part is that I feel a grudging respect for the person who's ruining my life. In much the same way I did with Potter. Or perhaps, I'm simply projecting Potter on to this arsehole. Either way, I'm going to need to see a mind-healer to straighten me out. This can't be normal.

I use the extra time I have to work on the Christmas presents for Potter's children. There are no less than a dozen scraps of spare parchments and two dry inkwells before me. I've practically worn my best quill down to the nub, but I'm fairly sure I have plans for three exceptional gifts. For James, I've designed a train set that will traverse Potter's entire home. For Albus Severus, a chess set with familial pieces. And for Lily, since I've head she has an affinity for it, a potions kit that will make any spotty swot green with envy. 

I'm dotting some Is and crossing some Ts when Potter strolls into my office. I can only hope he has good news. I can't tell by the lopsided smile on his face. He sits down across from me and waits until I deposit my quill in the inkhorn. 

"Good news and bad news," he tells me. "Which would you like first?"

"The bad news, of course," I say.

Potter leans in close and plunks his elbows down on my desk. Were he to do this at my table, I'd put the squeeze on his balls with a napkin ring. Even now, it's barely acceptable. The things I put up with. 

"There are _two_ killers involved," Potter informs me.

I lean back in my chair. Anything to further the distance; this information is suffocating me. "Two killers?" I repeat. "How can you tell?"

"Magical signatures are as unique as fingerprints. No two are alike," Potter explains. "The two we collected were as different as night and day."

I knew that signatures could be found in trace residues. What I didn't know was that they could be collected. Preserved and stored even. I pick at a loose thread nervously. "Continue," I encourage.

"If the murders continue, I think we can infer that a third signature may be possible."

Potter's careful not to guarantee anything one hundred percent. Age has led him to err on the side of caution. "What else can you tell me about the signatures?"

"Only that we haven't found a match on either. And there are a lot in storage. The room's about the size of the Hall of Prophecies. Thousands upon thousands of hermetically sealed bell jars containing a sample of the witch's or wizard's magic. Low vacuum prevents sound travel trapping the spell." 

I clasp my hands together prayerfully and consider this. Potter almost sounds scholarly. "A match may not even exist."

He nods solemnly. I move on. "And the good news?"

"We found a scrap of parchment at the crime scene. No actual fingerprints, but we're still running a battery of tests on it."

I aim my sarcasm at Potter's enthusiasm. "And this is good news how?"

"Either one of the killers is getting sloppy, or he's purposefully being cocky. This is how people get caught."

"I see," I reply. I stand, hopefully cueing Potter to stand as well. I need to lose myself in work now, and it makes sense that I should do it with what I just started. 

Exactly as I fear, he doesn't budge. "Did you need something else? I've got work to do."

Potter sets a spare wand down on my desk. "It won't be a perfect fit, of course, but it'll suffice."

"Now?" I ask. "My concentration's off."

Potter finally stands, offering his arm for a Side-Along. "No man always works under the best of circumstances."

I pick up the spare wand and examine it. I'm almost positive I see a hairline fracture in the wood. This is going to be a demanding day, I concede. 

I step around my desk and take Potter's arm. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll splinch myself.

(| M & S |) 

The landing is rough, and I end up on my arse. It's so dark that I can't see my hand in front of my face. The air is stale and vapid, and it smells like rotted wood planks beneath me. I can't imagine where I am.

It occurs to me that my life might end in five minutes; that Potter's taken me off to my death. Then, candlelight flickers from the four corners, and I'm able to discern shapes. I raise a hand to my face as it grows brighter in the room to cope with my light sensitivity. Soon, my eyes adjust entirely, and I see that I'm sitting in the centre of a room the size of a Pitch. I get to my feet as Potter approaches me, brushing the debris from my backside. A sound like that of a rogue gobstone skipping the uneven planks disturbs the silence, and I pray that's not my signet ring. I'm also pretending I didn't just touch petrified rat shit. Whatever Potter's been touting about double-casting had better be worth my pain and suffering. 

"Where are we?" I ask, scouting the floor for a band of silver and gold. I Accio my ring when I can't find it on sight alone. It goes right into my pocket. 

"Orkney," Potter replies. "An abandoned Auror safe house left over from the first war. It's ample enough for our needs."

"If we were staging a large-scale orgy, perhaps." Outside, the winds howl something fierce. The wood of the safe house creaks with the strain. 

"Trust me, we'll need all the space," Potter reassures. "I still have to spell the surrounding buffers. Unless you fancy a good wood slamming."

I do, actually, but I think Potter and I speak of different topics. I must look ridiculous standing here with a stupid grin on my face.

Once Potter is finished conjuring his air cushions, he pulls one of my action figures from his pocket and sets it about fifty feet away. Our sparring partner, it turns out, is Gideon Crumb. I have to wonder if Potter's selection is random, or if he hates the Weird Sisters as I do. Once life-sized, Gideon proceeds to blow on his bagpipes. The whining and screeching makes my head pound.

"The trick," Potter begins. "Is to delineate between two separate spells and call upon them together. It works best with a verbal and a non-verbal together. Here, let me demonstrate."

Potter motions for me to step aside, and I can't move fast enough. I might feel sympathy for Gideon if he wasn't strutting about in tartan particulars. 

The spells hit Gideon with brute force. The Stupefy knocks Gideon out, and the carefully aimed Reducto blasts the pipes clean out of Gideon's hands. Some of his fingers are still attached to the pipes, wiggling in vain effort to demonstrate real tissue trauma. Potter sets Gideon up half a dozen times more before encouraging me to try. In ten tries I have not one success. So this is how Longbottom felt in Potions class? If there were a way to cheat at this, I'd consider it. 

Right about now, I kind of hate myself. 

Despite my failures, Potter doesn't bat an eyelash. He doesn't critique, but then he doesn't offer positive reinforcements either. It's not until I meet with one near success that he even utters a word.

"Christ, Malfoy. 'Bout time."

"Fuck you very much," I say, wiping the sweat from my brow. "I'm not as dexterous with my left hand."

"So do something to change that. If your right hand is dominant, use the left hand twice as much. Eat with that hand. Dress with that hand. Wank with that hand."

That, of course, conjures up a fantastic image of Potter masturbating. Well, it's not as though he didn't have to run through these same exercises when he was learning. I simply find it amusing that he probably had to move to another room so not as to disturb the Weaselette.

Potter puts my smile into question. "What's with the big shit-eating grin?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "Nothing I say." My grin deepens, and he frowns. He twirls both of his wands as though they are drumsticks and gets into position. I'm about to get throttled, I note, as we prepare to spar.

I stand right where Crumb did, and I wonder if I'll be picking my fingers up from the floor momentarily. My wand feels familiar in my hand, but this other wand feels completely foreign. If I'm to master this art, I'll have to have another wand made from Shostakovitch since Ollivander's now retired. 

"Ready?" Potter calls out from the other end.

To die? I ask myself privately. Not hardly. I take my stance. "Ready."

Potter delivers a double Rictusempra combo. The force of the blow is so overwhelming, I'm literally tickled right off my feet. Even with the magical buffers, my crash is still jarring. The lone Expelliarmus I manage to throw is deflected with ease.

I get to my feet feeling rather inadequate as a wizard. 

"That was pathetic, Malfoy," Potter tells me.

Have I mentioned I yet sympathise with fucking Longbottom? I sneer back in protest. "I'm just getting warmed up."

We go at this again, and Potter sends a Body-Bind curse my way. I can only look in humiliation as first one wand goes and then the other, ricocheted expertly off the second spell. If this were a real battle, I'd be in a world of hurt right now. I can't explain why I'm allowing Potter to beat me so badly. I'm better than this. 

Potter crosses to me and counters the Body-Bind curse. My bones creak when I stretch my limbs to rid myself of the tingling. He hands me back both my wands. "Are you even trying?" he asks me.

The spoilt little boy in me wants to sit and sulk, like I used to with mother. At least I'd come out of it with a hug and bag of sweets. "Don't be ridiculous." I grip both wands tightly in anger.

"All right then, Malfoy. A little effort goes a long way."

I stare at Potter a good thirty seconds for his scathing remark. I wonder just how good he'll perform if he can't s--

I know the perfect way in which to cripple him.

We take our duelling positions up. I wear such a hungry look on my face that I salivate in anticipation. I'm going to hit Potter hard and where it counts.

At Potter's signal, I Accio his glasses. The git can't see without them. He fires off a Diffindo and an Expelliarmus. I keep both of my wands but my trousers split right down the seams. I disarm him before he can fire again.

I lose my trousers but I retain my dignity. Not exactly a fair trade, but I'll take it. I hand Potter back his glasses, but not without smudging the lenses up first.

"Nice execution, Malfoy, but you missed the point of the exercise."

I look smugger than a man should in tattered trousers and green underwear. "Did I?"

"Yes, you did." Potter lowers his gaze. "Are those… Are you wearing…?"

"Monogrammed pants? I am. What of it?"

Potter holsters both of his wands. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Yeah, I think we're done for the day."

I have to ask. He started this after all. "Does my semi-nakedness offend your delicate senses, Potter?"

He pushes the bridge of his glasses up two-fingered. The arms fit looser. I may or may not have had something to do with that.

"Don't be stupid," he replies. "I just prefer more practical pants is all."

"Boring you mean. White cotton y-fronts. A man's pants say a lot about his bedroom habits."

Potter has the good sense to blush.

"Right then, I'll be by later tomorrow," he says. "You can find your way back. Good show by the way."

"Indeed." Potter can't look me in the eyes. He Disapparates out of there before it's readily apparent.

Potter may have won the war, but I have several battles under my belt. Along with a stiff cock.

(| M & S |) 

When I've had all I can take of anti-gravity train tracks, Potter-Weasley knights and shatterproof flasks, I head to Steam.

I've always loved the ambiguous nature of the place. And while the name most likely conjures an image of a gay bathhouse, it's actually my favourite coffee shop.

My espresso always comes to me lukewarm, and my dessert portions are always on the slim side. I'm never thanked for coming or told to have a nice day. I usually wait longer than necessary for service, and no one ever comes back to check on me. 

I recommend this place to all my disreputable friends. 

They hate me and what I used to represent, and frankly, I don't give a fuck. I smile back with annoying frequency. I'm overly cheery, and I tip _well_.

I refuse to be beaten down or chased out. 

Today, they've not given me a fork, so I eat my tiramisu with my fingers. My hands are a mess by the time I've finished. Not surprisingly, I'm without a napkin as well.

I suppose I could Transfigure what I need, but I'd only be giving them what they want. They're going to need a bigger stick to get under my skin enough to splinter.

Potter's along in a moment to change all this, though. He's served hot espresso and tiramisu enough to properly chub him out.

I might've let a tiny pout slip. Unseemly I know, but fuck my sunny optimism with a raging rain cloud. I get up to leave, hoping he hasn't seen me. No such luck.

"Malfoy?" he calls out, feigning surprise.

I muffle a growl. Nothing should ever be feigned -- least of all happiness, surprise and orgasms. Not necessarily in that order either.

I put on my coat. "Potter." 

He has a bite bigger than the entire slice I was given. "Not leaving, are you?"

"That is the general idea when one puts on a coat, Potter."

He takes a tentative sip of his coffee. "Stay and chat a bit?"

I'm not in the mood for Potter this evening. In much the same way one tires of meat and potatoes for dinner five nights a week. I unbutton my coat, though, and sit like I was Imperiused to do so. Every eye in the place is on us, and I feel naked and on display. There's only one place I don't mind being exploited for entertainment, and it involves another hot liquid entirely.

"What did you need to talk about?" I ask.

"Nothing in particular," he says. 

Potter must know I think he's lying, so the bastard placates me with more tiramisu. I wish I wasn't so easy sometimes.

"You have further leads I assume?"

Before Potters answers, he orders a fresh cup of espresso for me and another fork to share his dessert. I shouldn't be amazed at the attention the plebes lavish on him, but it's sickening in comparison. The coffee is piping hot, and the fork doesn't look as though it was pulled out of someone's arsehole.

"Mmm, yes, that," he answers around a bite of tiramisu. "And I didn't get the chance to assess your first night of training."

The corners of my mouth curl up in a lazy smile. We both know why his departure was quickened. "You left in quite the hurry, Potter. Something distress you?" 

Potter's eyes brighten as he places a Privacy Charm over us. It would be so much easier to talk elsewhere, but then Potter wouldn't get the lovesick imbeciles to fawn all over him. I know he's been quoted in the _Prophet_ several times as saying he doesn't like to be iconised, but you can't tell me a little part of him doesn't love the godliness aspect. I'm thoroughly convinced one of his followers will form a religion and worship at the House of Potter.

"I had someplace I needed to be, all right," he says. "Don't read anything more into it."

I shouldn't be this exasperating when he's come all the way down to Earth to find me, his lone shepherd. But dammit, I excel at exasperating.

I sit back in my chair all casual-like, holding cup and saucer in hand. "What was I reading into it?"

Potter's so cross he looks as though he's chewing on his face. "Look, I came here on good will, but if you're going to be an arse, I'll just save myself the trouble and send an owl."

"No need," I say, setting my coffee down. I take up my fork again and poke at what's left of dessert. I've eaten way too much of this. I'm going to have a bellyache later. "You were saying earlier?"

"We've analysed the parchment. It's a rare Egyptian papyrus. Not so rare it automatically points to the killers but rare enough. Expensive, too. It's not sold at Flourish and Blott's. I have a theory, actually."

I push the plate away in resignation. "Let's hear it." 

Potter leans in very close -- as if he's forgotten about his Privacy Charm. "I think our killers are having their strings pulled by a puppeteer."

I pause a moment before speaking. "That's quite a leap, Potter."

"I've made greater leaps than that and have been right."

I can't decide whether he's stating fact or being a pompous braggart. I'm sure it's a little of both.

"That scrap of parchment plays an important part in all this, too, I'm willing to bet," Potter says, more to himself than to me.

He goes off on a tangent next, further speculating and then patting himself on the back for his guesswork. I'm not in the mood for Potter's intellectual jerk offs, so I change the subject and switch the focus to me. "So, I really did all right yesterday duelling?"

Potter blinks a number of times before I realise that's just his brain doing an about face. "As a duellist, you perform well. You're quick on your feet, and you execute bold moves. Physically disabling your opponent is very effective. You hit me where it hurt most, and I commend you for that. As a double-caster, you're rubbish. You're too slow, and your synchronisation skills are pitiable. We have our work cut out for us."

I'm about to protest and declare my skills, at the very least, wretched when Kingsley's Patronus appears at the coffee shop window. 

"You're being summoned," I say, thankful I can't hear the plebes' _oohing and ahhing_. It's bad enough I can see their lips move.

Potter slides from his chair, all untidy grace. "So I am." He disables the Privacy Charm and starts to head out. Hand on the door, he turns around with a jarring snap of his fingers. "Almost forgot. I'll pick you up at six tomorrow."

I had forgotten. Potter is my date for the Knutcracker. "Wear something nice," I demand. "Preferably clean and pressed. Stylish wouldn't hurt either."

Potter grins. "I'll wear whatever I damned well please." The bell above the door chimes at his departure.

His authoritative nature is downright grating and sexy all at once. I'll pull one off before bed to the sound of his voice.

I contemplate the crumbs on my plate and the dregs in the bottom of my cup as I visually run through my own wardrobe.

I argue between tailored frocks, brass buttons and clockwork gadgets.

But what I really want to wear is Potter's arse for a hat.

(| M & S |) 

I snap the lid of my pocket watch shut. Potter is twenty minutes late.

Honestly, I don't know how any witch or wizard can run late when our modes of transportation are virtually instantaneous. I could secure an international Portkey in the time it's taking Potter to meet me. He'd better look presentable for all he's making me wait.

The apology arrives before Potter, actually. "Sorrysorrysorry," I hear before the pop of Apparition. When he does materialise, he's mussed and panting. The idiot is even carrying his other shoe.

Far be it for me to speculate. "You’re late," I remind him.

"Sorry," Potter repeats.

When I can see past my anger, I take a good look at Potter. He cleans up well, I'm happy to report. I mean, he's not me or anything even close, but then few people are. 

I might give him a second glance. 

Okay, maybe.

Slightly more yes than no.

Fuck. All right, _yes_.

My lips must be moving, because Potter gives me one hell of a look.

"Thought we'd grab dinner before the ballet."

"I'm certainly game," I say. The thought occurs to me to punish his tardiness by suggesting--

"Sushi?"

I deadpan. He couldn't possibly. "Nobu Sushi?" I offer.

Potter waves at me with his shoe as he Disapparates. I have no words for his foolishness. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I follow directly behind him.

Nobu Sushi is crowded this time of night on a Friday. The counter is full, so Potter and I sit down at a table.

We're over-dressed for the crowd here, so we get our fair share of gawks. I expect the _Prophet_ will be by snapping photos before we've even ordered drinks, but Skeeter and Co. are sadly absent. I feel unimportant.

I feel really unimportant when I don't even warrant dirty looks. Fortunately for me, plum sake does wonders for a wounded ego.

Potter's tastes border on the conservative. He chooses varieties of nigirizushi; ebi, maguro, toro and tamago. The amount of wasabi he uses renders me speechless. If I used as much as he did, I'd have to proclaim myself a walking Fiendfyre torch. If he's not going to reach for his water, _I_ will. I gulp down half his glass before he yanks it away from me.

When I've had my fill of salmon roe and sashimi, I entertain myself by watching Potter. His use of chopsticks is painful. For a man who's mastered double-casting, I can't figure out why he's so clumsy with wooden eating utensils. It provides me with more amusement than I should have in one evening. I laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

"What's so funny?" he asks me, actually smiling in defeat. He has a smear of wasabi on his front tooth. I flinch back in horror. 

"For starters, how are you so unskilled with chopsticks? And secondly, when did you develop a taste for anything not red meat and potatoes?" 

Potter mulls over my questions with a sip or two of plum sake before answering. "Well, Nobu-san could care less whether or not I've mastered chopsticks. He's more about the enjoyment of his food."

Harry turns around and waves at a man with greying hair. The man smiles back at Potter, and then turns his attentions to me. Nobu brandishes a cleaver and demonstrates with one strike his parallel to Walden Macnair. I turn to Potter with a start. 

"But it's rude," I interject. "And disrespectful."

Potter merely shrugs off my logic and tends to my next question. 

"As to your assessment of my likes and dislikes, I spent three weeks in Japan on a case. I developed all kinds of tastes." 

He cuts me off there, and I want to strangle him.

"And?" Potter's very visual, so I try enticing him with suggestive hand movements. The simple git takes the bait.

"And nothing. I had a brief fling with one of the Toyohashi Tengu."

I frown. "Which one?"

"Can't say."

"Start or reserve?"

Potter glares at me. "That's really none of your business. And for the record, my bedroom habits were never in question."

I take all this into account. By the end of the night, I'll have the name of the person Potter slept with. I'm leaning towards Nakamura. She's their star Chaser.

"Puzzle it out all you want. You'll never guess."

Potter tries to hide a tiny smile, and I can tell he thinks on these experiences with fondness. It's killing me not to know, so I change the subject.

"What happened with the Weaselette?" I ask, finishing what's left of the sake.

Potter's eyes narrow, and I know that I've touched upon a nerve. Oddly, it doesn't make me feel good.

"Don't, Malfoy, just don't. Ginny and I didn't work out, but that doesn't give you carte blanche to mock her or our relationship. I still love her dearly and wish her every happiness. I'm certain you wouldn't want me to speak ill of Astoria like that."

Potter's right, of course. I'd hex his balls off. So I man up and apologise. "I'm sorry, Potter, I shouldn't have said that."

"Thanks, Malfoy. I appreciate that. Ginny's with Dean now, and I can't pretend it doesn't hurt a bit, but these things always do."

Potter's right about that, too. I still hurt over Astoria, but she's better off.

To my surprise, Potter pays for dinner. I give him the impression that I'm nodding in thanks, but what I'm really doing is appraising his generous tip. It's nice to know I'm wrong about Potter in some aspects. 

We stand to leave and Potter's given his usual due. The Japanese call Potter _eiyuu_ or hero. 

I call him maddening. I need a fag stat.

(| M & S |) 

Potter insists we Side-Along to the theatre. Something about plum sake and Splinching. He's being over-protective. I can attribute this trait to prolonged exposure to Granger. I wonder what she'd have to say about his smoking my cigarettes.

No sooner do we arrive than the paparazzi are in our faces. This puts me in a mood. I mean, where were these idiots an hour ago when I appeared fresh and wasn't feeling bloated from eating too much sushi? And I resent Skeeter's accusation that I'm with Potter when he's so obviously with me.

I watch her expression wither as Potter whispers something in her ear. She makes a cutting motion across her throat, and her Quick Quotes Quill hovers, awaiting further instruction. 

She glares at Potter a moment before leaving out with her crew. Is it too much to ask that she get fucked by the Knight Bus?

I wink at Potter. "My eiyuu." 

With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, Potter sends my topper sailing. It's stepped on before I can pick it up then kicked along in the crowd. With a subsequent snap of his fingers, my hat flies into his outstretched hand.

"Are you going to behave?" he asks me.

We have about thirty minutes until the curtain rises, so I grab two glasses of wine from a passing tray. "In the only way I know how."

Potter waves a hand over my hat, and it's restored to pristine condition. He sets it back on my head, and I offer him one of the glasses.

He sips thoughtfully until an alarm triggers. Apparently, anything containing alcohol has been spelled with an Age Specification Charm to discourage any pre-adolescent fun. This puts Potter in a spirited mood. 

"So, did Astoria marry you knowing your door swung in both directions?"

Ten seconds more, and I would've choked on improperly served wine. Beaujolais should be enjoyed at about twelve degrees Celsius. This tastes more like fourteen degrees. "That came out of the left side of the Pitch," I frown.

"You did ask about Ginny. I think this entitles me to the same."

He's probably right about that, but I want to have a little fun with him first. "You were fairly tight-lipped about your Tengu affair, Potter." 

"Yes, I was, and not for my sake either. Astoria, Malfoy, and your well-oiled door."

"Fine," I say, abandoning my glass. "Astoria and I were great together. A perfect match."

Potter arches an eyebrow.

"On parchment," I admit. "Don't get me wrong, though. I don't regret a thing. I will always love her. She gave me Scorpius, and he's my greatest joy." 

"Of course," Potter says, nodding in understanding. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"Yeah, Potter, she knew. The whole world knew. I was never uncomfortable with my sexual orientation."

Potter lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "And you shouldn't be. I just wanted to make sure you knew that as well."

I can't decide whether the touch or the acceptance feels better. I settle on touch when Potter takes me by the arm so we can find our seats. 

I've seen the Knutcracker so many times that I could re-enact the entire ballet in my sleep. It's the music I love, really, not the visuals. I close my eyes for a time, but eventually they open and settle on Potter. I watch him watching the ballet. 

He's at peace with himself right now. I see that in the rise and fall of his chest. In the way his hands are folded on his lap. In the flutter of his lashes when he blinks. 

I stare at his mouth next. The jut of his bottom lip. The way his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. The perfect O they form when his enjoyment culminates.

He catches me staring, and I flush in embarrassment. I hate that he does this to me, but I resolve to kiss him in the alleyway. The worst he can do is turn me away. 

It's snowing when we exit the theatre from the back. Everything lies tucked beneath a blanket of white as far as the eye can see. Large, downy flakes fall from a velvet sky pinpricked with stars. I hold my hand out to catch a snowflake, to study its unique design, until it melts away. I feel oddly purified. 

I've always enjoyed this time of year over the other seasons for one very important aspect; the irrefutable changes come spring. Winter is my never-ending chrysalis. No one can take that away from me.

Potter must sense I'm ruminating about something disgustingly sentimental, because he reaches into my robe pocket and pulls out my packet of fags, startling me.

He ignites the butt with a rudimentary wave of his hand. "Just lost you there. Where'd you go?"

I ignore this completely. "Is this becoming a bad habit of yours?" 

Potter smirks. "I'm allowed _one_ , aren't I?"

"Debatable, Potter, debatable."

I like sharing fags with Potter. He's still pants at forming anything recognisable, but I find his jack-o-lantern charming, if not a bit out of season. At least, I think that's what it was before it fades. 

I inhale deeply. The perfect opportunity presents itself, and I conjure mistletoe when he's busying himself catching a snowflake on his tongue. 

I want to tell Potter that I can't stop thinking about him. That I want to punch his stupid face because of it. I want to ask him if he's willing to trade one bad habit for another.

But a Patronus appears and everything falters. 

The snow stops falling.

(| M & S |) 

The home of Hambleighs R & D Specialist, Wendell Witherspoon, is not far from Ottery St Catchpole. Nick something-Greek took me out for souvlakia around here one night before claiming my arse as dessert. Thoughts of his tongue mimicking a Probity Probe are all that are keeping me grounded at the moment.

I really need to stop smiling. This can't look good at a crime scene where I'm superficially involved. 

"So, what do you make of Witherspoon here?"

"He's dead?" I shrug. 

Potter waves over Granger. "Droll, Malfoy, very droll. You know what I mean."

Honestly, I don't know what Potter wants me to say. The cause of death has yet to be determined. Visually, Witherspoon's cheeks are puffed out and his eyes are bulging. He resembles a spoilt child who's stuffed an entire handful of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum into his mouth. Maybe he died of bubble-blowing bliss? How the fuck should I know?

That stupid smile of mine returns. "Next time be more specific."

With a deft flick of her wrist, Granger extracts what Witherspoon's been hoarding in his mouth. They sail out one by one and hover in the air in a perfect circle.

Gobstones. Near an entire set. One appears to be missing. 

Potter directs a stern gaze at me. "And now?"

I step forward for a closer look. "Specially designed gobstones. They can’t be swallowed or stuck up any orifices. They're imbued with a Regurgitation Charm."

Potter makes a face at the mention of _orifices_. "Charming."

"Children love to shove objects anywhere they can, what can I tell you? No recalls. No lawsuits. Genius if you ask me."

"That's pushing it."

"He has a point, Harry," Granger offers.

Potter arches a 'do not encourage him' brow at Granger. "And yet, here Witherspoon stands, cheeks puffed out like a kid hopped up on Drooble's."

If Potter had a great mind, I might actually make that cliché comparison. "And yet, here Witherspoon stands, not choked by gobstones."

Potter takes a step forward. "All right, how did he die then?"

"A minute ago you were questioning my genius, now you're asking my advice?"

He meets me face-to-face. "Mental, isn't it?"

Granger steps in between us. "Boys!"

"Men," we both say in unison. 

I step back. I can personally attest to Granger's right hook. And all right, that's _two_ so far. At best, I'm willing to concede that Potter and I have crossed wavelengths.

I'm distracted from my thoughts from an arm shooting up into the air. She couldn't possibly be asking permission, could she?

I arch a brow. "Do you mind?" 

"I think I know how Witherspoon was killed," Granger says.

Potter flashes me a 'we'll finish this argument later' look followed by a behind the back kick to my arse. "Go on, Hermione."

"Well, I'm not the world's foremost expert on Gobstones, but I do know that when a player loses a point, the gobstone spits a putrid liquid at the player." 

I clap. "Bravo, Granger, you and every other nerd are aware of that."

This earns me a second kick to the arse.

Potter tuts at my startled reaction. "What are you saying, Hermione? That the liquid was tampered with?"

Granger continues while I muddle through a bit of discomfort. I bruise easily I hope they both know.

"I'm sure it was replaced with something toxic." 

"Wait? What? Can you be sure?" I ask in a panic.

"I can run a preliminary." Granger touches the tip of her wand to one of the stones suspended in mid-air. A skull and crossbones appears. "I'll have these stones tested further to determine type and level of toxicity."

Potter claps Hermione on the shoulder in thanks. The nature of their relationship has always perplexed me. I often wondered why they never got together. She departs with a smile to Potter.

"We know the cause of death now." He motions some of his men over so they can take the body away. In ten minutes the scene will be just as sterile as if the murder never happened. I sigh.

Potter looks back to me, concerned.

"I know you'll find out who's responsible for all this, Potter. It's just that it's very disconcerting to have someone make a mockery of your hard work in the process of ruining your life."

I fully expect Potter to tell me I'm a selfish prat. That lives being taken are more important than any work I do. He doesn't say anything, though. Rather, he opens the door that is his mental barrier and offers me a single thought; _I understand_.

Then, he delivers the harshest of his three kicks to my arse.

(| M & S |) 

I'm beta-testing Albus Severus's chess set when Potter strolls into my workshop. The Potter figure shot-puts his crown at an advancing Charlie Weasley before fleeing his throne. Obviously, there are still some issues that need resolving.

Potter looks at me in disbelief. "Did I just--?"

"Flee like a girl?" I finish. "Yes. I need to tinker with the surrender spells."

"Yeah," he says. "Because it's not like me to go down without a fight, y'know."

I laugh at this. "Go down without a fight nothing. You've played wizard's chess before hundreds of times. The captured piece always relents. You don't get to throw a punch first."

"I still wouldn't run," Potter says, poking his lower lip out in defiance. 

Potter and Severus are eerily alike when confronted with the topic of cowardice. "No one's saying you would. It's a breakdown in spell communication. I'll work through it. Salazar's scrote, what has your knickers in a twist this morning?"

Potter sits down on the stool next to mine, dragging a hand through his longish hair. "Nothing. Everything. This case. Work in general. My children in Egypt through Boxing Day."

"You couldn't get the time off, could you?"

Potter sighs. "I managed Christmas Eve and part of Christmas Day at the expense of my soul."

I have to ask. "The devil being?"

Potter pinches the bridge of his nose. "The truth is rarely pure and never simple, Malfoy."

Evidently, that's Potter's way of telling me to drop the subject. I move on to other things. "What'd you find out?"

"The putrid liquid, which is normally equal parts bubotuber pus and stinkweed, was replaced with Weeping Willoughby extract. In low doses, the extract has analgesic properties as a vasodilator. In higher concentrations, the doses can be lethal. Kind of like digitalis."

I nod at Potter's findings. I'm familiar enough with the Weeping Willoughby plant via Severus. I'm aware that the leaves cannot simply be plucked or poisoning occurs. In fact, one must coax the plant into giving up its leaves by making it weep through insult and intimidation.

"Calpurnia Prince would have knowledge of this being Severus's second cousin and all."

"Point of reference," I add. "So would Sutcliffe and Wentworth. Both are migraine sufferers. Being their boss, I may or may not be responsible."

I hold up the kingly version of Potter and smile with a bit of tooth. "You should question all three and give me a spot of peace, Potter."

Potter stands. He leans forward and splays his hands on my tabletop. "I may do that yet."

"Sutcliffe's good for a haircut, too." I point to the sparrow's nest atop Potter's head. "You could use a trim."

Potter crosses to the door, smoothing down a feather-like tuft by his temple. "I wasn't aware you were looking that closely, but thanks."

"Anytime," I say, an indelible smirk on my lips. "Oh, have there been any further developments on the scrap of parchment found at the second crime scene?"

"Nothing further, no," Potter says. He turns away as if to hide himself from me.

My astute observation of his unruly hair has planted the seeds of paranoia. He's checked both his breath and his fly as well, and not as discreetly as he may have thought. I stall him just a bit longer.

"Why don't you come over for dinner Christmas Eve, Potter? I have an informal gathering with Blaise and Pansy every year. You're more than welcome to join us."

"Thanks," Potter mutters. "I'll bring wine."

The door opens with a creak.

"Nothing that's served over twelve degrees Celsius," I remind him. 

Potter leaves out with an indignant snort. I Summon my modified Foe Glass to watch Potter's interviews. 

Of course, not before I lock my door and have a satisfying wank. I blame my over-active imagination and the tuft of hair that resembles sex-crazed bed-head. I'm incorrigible and have never claimed to be anything less.

(| M & S |) 

I get little accomplished after Potter leaves.

In fact, I get _nothing_ further done on gifts I need to present in a few days. It looks as though I'll be burning both ends of the candle tonight. And tomorrow night if I don't regain my focus.

How can I, though, when Potter provides entertainment I couldn't obtain even if I paid for it? Honestly, this is the most fun I could possibly have with all my clothes on. I can't tear my eyes away from the Glass.

Sutcliffe's just as quick with his shears as Potter is with two wands. In ten minutes, Potter almost looks human again. 

"Not too much now," Potter says. "And nothing trendy."

"Of course not, Mr Potter." The sexy tuft is gone with a snip, and I sigh. I had visions of running my fingers through it. 

Potter jerks away and narrowly avoids having his eye skewered. "All right then, that's enough."

"It's uneven." Sutcliffe pushes Potter back into his seat before he can protest more. The other side is clipped so the cut is symmetrical. Potter looks good. Or more precisely, _kempt_. He stands in a huff and rights his cloak, now covered in tiny hairs. 

Sutcliffe brandishes a mirror and Potter has a good look at himself. I can tell he's still self-conscious about his scar, even if it's nearly faded. And like every other well-meaning working stiff, Potter tries to pay Sutcliffe.

"Oh no no no," Sutcliffe protests. "I couldn't possibly accept payment--"

Potter freezes a moment before slipping the coins back in his pocket. I tell you, Potter's going to regret that decision. 

Sutcliffe closes the distance between them. "In coins." He descends on Potter like a Seeker to a Snitch. Anything involving tongue, however, was apparently fair game. 

I laugh myself into hiccoughs. Must give Potter credit, though. Nothing even remotely critical registers on his face. Rather, he appeals to Sutcliffe's euphoric state, leaving him open to suggestion. If I didn't know better, I'd say Potter orchestrated that kiss. Why bother with Veritaserum when Potter need only part his lips?

"Listen." Potter begins. "I have a migraine. I'm told you have Weeping Willoughby extract. Think you could help me out?"

Sutcliffe looks as though he's positively beside himself with grief as he shakes his head. "Fresh out I'm afraid. Been a bit of a rough week."

Potter looks ridiculous pouting. I absolutely do not notice how swollen and shiny his lips are when he does this. My body rebels the denial with a hiccough loud enough to wake the dead. 

"Wentworth has at least a drachm in his office. You could try him. He's not much on sharing, mind."

"I'll take my chances." Potter winks at Sutcliffe for effect. "Destroy all those hairs, will you? Don't want them falling into the wrong hands." 

The wink is returned. "Of course not."

I'm wracked with another bone-jarring hiccough. They seem to coincide with lines of bullshit. At this rate, they may never go away.

Since I'm alone, I bet myself one Galleon that Wentworth won't be immune to Potter's allure. And that at least _one_ hair is misappropriated by Sutcliffe. 

Wentworth is engaged in a personal Floo call when Potter lets himself into Wentworth's office.

"I'll Floo you back," he says, removing his feet from the desk. He sits upright and stares Potter hard in the face for his interruption. I shift the Galleon in my hand from left to right and back again. It's only over when Potter says it's over.

"Something I can help you with, Auror Potter?"

Potter sits on the edge of Wentworth's desk, picking up a picture frame. It still displays the stock photograph. 

"No significant other?" Potter asks. 

Wentworth smirks. "I have trouble committing."

Potter fixes Wentworth with one of his own hard stares. "I have a headache. Heard you might be able to help with that?"

"If by help you mean massaging your temples, you might want to consider Ms Prince." He takes the frame from Potter's hands and sets it back down on his desk.

I suppose it amuses me some that I'm both winning and losing my bet. I reconsider the stakes and drop another Galleon into my hand.

"I was thinking more in terms of Weeping Willoughby extract. I'm told you have some."

"Then you were misinformed, Auror Potter. I save all illicit substances for after hours."

I snort. Wentworth and I had each other after hours. I wonder if I fall under that category.

Potter's gaze flickers to a roll of parchment. Even from my distorted view it looks expensive. He Accio's it with a non-verbal. "You take care of all of Malfoy's correspondences, don't you?"

"It's what I'm paid to do, yes."

"You must only be fair at your job, because Malfoy's not doing much business right now." 

I think I know where this is going, but I make no guesses yet. I'd rather see how it plays out.

"He's embroiled in a public murder investigation, Auror Potter. There's only so much I can do." 

The ensuing silence is disturbed by the sound of parchment being torn from a roll. "A likely enough belief, but I'm convinced you're not trying your hardest." He hands Wentworth the sheet.

"And you want me to do what with this?"

Potter steps down from Wentworth's desk. "Pretend I'm one of your substances and…elicit me," he smiles. "On parchment, if I was unclear."

"You want me to draught a letter and convince you of my worth?"

Potter plays to a playboy's greatest weakness; his ego. "Then I'll just assume you're shit at your job and recommend that Malfoy replace you."

Wentworth snares a quill from the inkhorn. "You are as big an arse as they say."

Potter neither confirms nor denies this statement. Instead, he waits patiently for Wentworth's persuasive missive. In less than two minutes, Wentworth has fulfilled his obligation. He tries to hand it to Potter. Potter refuses.

"Read it aloud."

Wentworth's cheeks brighten a little. He clears his throat and begins. "I stand audaciously in your sitting room, dressed up in bows and faerie lights, twinkling my star for you. It's not what's under that counts, but what's on top. Come decorate me further. I _pine_ for you. Your Christmas tree."

Potter extends his hand and Wentworth hands him the letter. He makes his way towards the door.

"Well?" Wentworth demands at Potter's retreating figure.

The door closes with a soft snick. I settle my bet with one Galleon in each hand. I hate Potter and Wentworth equally.

As I suspected, Calpurnia's the only one actually working. She's introducing a new batch of female action figures in her heroine's line. Potter makes the grave error of touching one without her permission. 

The action figure is plucked from Potter's hands with a snarl. "What is it, Potter? I'm extraordinarily busy."

Yeah, she's basically Snape with cleaner hair. And a girly shape.

Potter offers his hand in greeting. "We finally meet, Ms Prince. You were missed at breakfast not long ago."

Calpurnia shakes Potter's hand, rounding it off with a bit of squeeze to her grip. I cross my legs uncomfortably. Believe me, you don't want her death grip elsewhere. 

"You've met me now. Off you go." 

Potter is undaunted by her brush-off. "Hang on. You can spare ten minutes for an old friend of the family?"

"Severus despised you, Potter."

"We made nice in the end. I named my second son after him."

Calpurnia sets her wand down with a sigh. "I can see I'll get nothing done until I appease you. Let's make our little chat quick and painless, yes?"

Not much of a conversationalist, our Calpurnia. But what she lacks in small talk she makes up for in other areas.

Potter takes her request to heart. "What do you know about Gobstones?"

"So, right off the Beater's bat you assume I know something of Gobstones, because my great aunt Eileen played at Hogwarts?"

A lesser man would probably back-peddle out of fear, but Potter forges onward. "Was I incorrect to think otherwise?"

"Just so we're clear, Potter, we are all of us very different from one another. The only thing I know about Gobstones is that the marbles string together nicely and pull out just as easily."

I nearly choke on my saliva. If I could reach the spot, I'd whack myself on the back. I can't believe she went _there_.

Potter's facial expression is all over the place. He doesn't know whether to laugh, sneer or look mortified. I just want the fucking moment to pass. When Potter finally composes himself, he asks the next obvious question.

"Right, so then you know equally nothing about potion making?"

"Not my fancy, Potter. Though, I know you've been asking after Weeping Willoughby extract. I can tell you that it's a class three painkiller, pestiferous in high doses and that as little as three millilitres can distinguish the differences between relief and release. Proximity word vomit. Side effect of being related to the wizarding world's most famous Potioneer." She shrugs. "Anything else, Potter?"

"No, no I think we're quite done." 

Calpurnia picks up her wand again and waves Potter off. "Excellent. Must do this again soon."

Potter turns to leave.

Done? Already? Pardon, but I've only been ridiculed once. And call me selfish, but Potter didn't handle her as expertly as he did Wentworth. Colour me very disappointed. Done, indeed. 

By the four Founders, _someone_ hears me.

"Oh, Potter?" She beckons him forward. "I almost forgot."

He crosses to her, and as soon as Potter's within step, I flinch.

The strike isn't hard but it's similarly alarming. His glasses fall askew. "Be a dear and pass that message along to Draco won't you?"

Potter rights his glasses with the tip of his index finger. "You know I could arrest you for striking an Auror, but I won't. Instead, I'll have you courier a message back." 

He whispers something into Calpurnia's ear, and just like that, I'm left out of the loop. I get no sense of her reaction until after Potter leaves. My tea service is now short one cup and saucer.

I've been sitting in the same space for too long, so I stand and stretch. A drink seems amply therapeutic so I pour myself a double Firewhisky. To sum up my day, I've been mocked, dishonoured, two-timed and have had my sex life secreted away. All in all, a glorious day. I toast in celebration.

(| M & S |) 

Christmas Eve arrives in the blink of an eye, and it will be gone just as quickly. That's always what I've disliked most about the holidays, so I savour the time while it's here.

Tonight, I've glutted myself on good wine, good food and good company. At the very least, I want it to last through the night, but Blaise and Pansy are looking restless. I don't want to consider how desperate I'd look begging them to stay even an hour later. Pity looks are bad enough without the added insult of the pity fuck. And frankly, I'd rather not spend Christmas morning picking bulb shards from my back, because those two thought it a good idea to explore their inner pain-sluts. 

They're both kissing me under the mistletoe, Blaise on my left and Pansy on my right, when Potter finally comes round. I'm not keeping track of time, but if I were, Potter would be four hours late. He shows up on my doorstep looking equal parts bedraggled and apologetic, carrying a bottle of Kame no O. Blaise and Pansy make a dramatic exit, and I usher Potter inside. The fire's still going, and the air's a bit cloying with Christmassy smells. I feel a bit over-stimulated, but I can tell Potter's well at ease. He hands me his coat and flops on my settee like it's a mind healer's couch. I wonder just what he's willing to share with me.

I take the bottle of sake from his arms. "Rough night?" 

He nudges an indolent faerie by the wing. It mumbles something in faerie-speak and then joins the procession again. "A little too, and not in the way I prefer." 

I can't tell if Potter's having me on, or if he's being serious. More than likely, he's feeling a bit punchy from having skipped breakfast and lunch, so I remind him that dinner's still under the guise of a Warming Charm, and that it's not going to serve itself. 

Potter's plate is loaded with turkey, roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, carrots and parsnips and plum pudding with brandy butter. He condenses the feast into one large pile of victuals commonly referred to as the 'Auror mash-up.' You could say that Potter's done for the corps what the Earl of Sandwich did for his gambling conversants. Of course, this is no way to savour a meal. I make a mental note to take Potter out for fine dining on a day opposite our visit to the tailor's lest he need a refit. 

While Potter eats, I pour the sake for us. Honestly, I have to wonder how a man that eats in such a manner could have such an appreciation for dai gingo. I have this metaphysical urge to take Potter apart and put him back together again just to see how he works. 

We discuss superficial topics; work, our plans for tomorrow, our friends, Quidditch. And then Potter shifts the conversation over to matters more serious.

Regrets and things we can't change.

I have a fair few. I can only imagine how many Potter must have. 

He divides what's left of the sake between us and stares into his cup. "Factoring in that the Sorting Hat takes your request into account, if you could be resorted, would you choose a different House?"

I've thought about that so many times, and Potter's only been the first to ask me. I'm certain I have a well-rehearsed answer for that, but I can't be arsed to remember it, so I speak from the heart. "Yes," I say after a slight pause. "Don't die from shock, Potter, but my answer might be Gryffindor." 

"Really?" Potter changes positions on the settee to something more formal, indicating he wishes a lengthy reply from me. He needn't fret. 

"For a number of reasons," I rationalise. "Least of which included a cycle that needed to be broken, a family core that needed to be shaken. It wasn't me, and that's been rather a difficult cross to bear. But I'm happy that it was my son. Ravenclaw is stronger for it."

Potter sips thoughtfully. "It's different now. There isn't this stigma anymore."

"Yes, there is that," I say. What I don't tell Potter is that being sorted into Gryffindor would have instilled courage in me. The courage I should've inherited from my father had he been anything of a positive influence. I shake my head, though, as if to clear the thought from my mind. "What about you, Potter? Any House sorting regrets? Be honest."

"No point in lying. I've often wondered what it would've been like in Slytherin House."

I laugh. "I can prophesise that in three ticks."

"By all means," he urges with a gesture of his hand.

"One, you'd look sickly in green. Two, there's room enough for _one_ Seeker. And three, you'd still be the bane of Snape's existence."

Potter grins at me. "You're probably right about that."

I turn quiet soon after. Moments pass before either of us speaks again. 

Potter's plea is barely above a whisper. "I really want to kiss you."

He always goes about things the wrong way. Says things the wrong way. But, Christ, how I weaken at the thought.

My response is inelegant. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" 

Potter comes at me in a rush of breath and a tangle of limbs. He straddles my thighs and holds me hostage in the wingback chair I'm seated in. His lips are soft, much softer than I expect, and I lose myself in each part and press of his mouth. He takes my face in his hands and pins me with a gaze somewhere between desire and desperation. I tilt my chin upward and purse my lips just slight enough that he might draw closer. I want him to reach for me. 

His mouth closes on mine, and I lay a hand on his chest in defiance, pushing back with greater force as his struggles deepen. I crave the fight, and it comes with a vengeance at the mere suggestion of denial. Potter presses his groin to my stomach, and the long, hard line of his cock pleases me, but only so far.

Potter's too in control for my liking. I have terms I need to dictate, and I do this by shifting my weight around as much as I can. His frustration metes quickly, and I press the advantage when his hold on me slackens. I urge Potter back on his hindquarters and slink lower in the chair. I'm certain there are easier ways to accomplish this, but I do love a face full of cock.

He's not quite as shy as I imagined, pushing the head of his cock between my lips. I resist even though I'm positively gagging for it. He pushes with more insistence, and I give only a little, enough for my tongue to dart and curl. I want just a taste. Potter whimpers in utter exasperation, and I almost feel pity for him. I would give Potter all of myself -- my mouth, my cock, my arse twice over -- but I require something of him first. I need to hear how badly he wants me.

"Please." I even ask nicely.

A trickle of sweat rolls down his brow. It hits my lashes and clings like an errant tear. I blink it free.

There is an unmistakable edge to his voice. "Please what?"

My tongue glides over the slit, wet and shiny and swollen. "You fucking know well what."

Potter moistens his lips. "That I want you?"

I relent a little. "Exactly that."

He reaches down and strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. "You have edges, Draco, and I want to cut myself on each and every one. Yeah," he finally concedes. "I fucking want you."

At his supplication, I devour Potter whole. I take him down to the root over and over again like the greedy cockslut that I am. My tongue slides down the length and wraps around the arc of the crown on the upsweep. I gorge myself senseless until I feel his balls tighten, hot and heavy in my hands. I'm going to swallow every drop that he gives to me.

Like all men of power, it takes me a moment to find his Achilles' heel, but when I do, he comes undone for me so sweetly that I gasp around him. My mouth fills, and I swallow him down even as he rolls his hips. When he pulls free, I dab the corners of my mouth on the end of my tie. There's no need to be greedy _and_ untidy. 

I want him in my bed yesterday. I want to be legs-spread and arse-up on my bed stat. The chair groans underneath his weight as he climbs off. 

After all this time, his hand finally comes for mine. I take it with a grin.

(| M & S |) 

In the morning, I wake up to two sore arseholes.

Potter's propped up against the headboard beside me reading one of my mystery novels when I awaken. He's wearing a sour look on his face, because I know he didn't sleep as well as he could've. I'd thought I'd made myself very clear before he fucked me into the sheets. If he was going to stay the night, he'd have to be happy with the left side of the bed. I always sleep on the right. No exceptions. My bed, my rules. 

Unfortunately for him, I made rather a mess on his side. Yes, I made Potter sleep in the wet spot. This, of course, was mostly his fault. While I'm exceptional with my hands, he's very good with his cock. And if you were thinking that I wasn't one to share adjectives, you'd probably be right. _Very good_ is nothing to scoff about, however. 

I amble to the bathroom for a shower, wincing at the friction when I walk. I know Potter's watching me over the top of the book he's not really reading, smirking at the idea of my being tender _there_. But oh, it was worth every bruising thrust. Today when I greet my parents for Christmas dinner, I'll do so with a spring in my step, a song in my heart and a shit-eating grin on my face. That my life's currently a mess elsewhere doesn't even register today. 

When I emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped about my waist, Potter finally snaps the book closed. 

"You're welcome to have a shower and join me for a spot of breakfast," I say.

Potter pads barefoot past me and into the bathroom. I get one look at his back and barely suppress the laughter. He splashes cold water on his face and then gargles with mouthwash. "I should be going," he calls out to me. "If I'm not in by ten, they'll send a Patronus out after me."

"You really should have a shower," I suggest. 

I change into grey woollen trousers and a fancy cuffed and collared button-down. I'm securing my watch when he walks out with a horrified look on his face. "Changed my mind. Tea and toast sounds good, yeah. Think I'll have a shower first." He leaves the door open a crack, and I admire my handiwork, chuckling.

When Potter meets me downstairs, he looks almost as good as I do. This may be due in part to his being togged up in my clothes. He's wearing my favourite pair of charcoal trousers with a light grey button-down and a green and silver tie. All right, so maybe I was a little rash in believing that Slytherin's colours weren't well suited to Potter. He looks damn good in them. 

"Those clothes look familiar," I acknowledge with a wink. I indicate his place at my table with a wave of my butter knife.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks me.

"We've shared fluids, Potter. I think I'm all right with your balls in my pants." 

Potter laughs and assesses the tea situation. His nose twitches imperceptivity. "This how you enjoy your tea?"

I peer into the kettle situated on the service tray. "Something wrong with it?"

"Only that it's too weak. Seriously, who taught you how to make tea?" He takes the kettle to the sink and pours out its contents.

I shrug. I've always had elves to make me tea. This is the first I've been without help. 

"Honestly, Malfoy, it's one bag for each drinker and one more for the pot. That's the cardinal rule. How is it that you don't know this?"

I grin. "Give the boy a gold star. He knows something that I don't."

While Potter and I wait on the tea, I reflect on the rest of my afternoon and evening. I'll have Christmas dinner at the manor with mother and father. Astoria will come later with Alessandro and Scorpius. I could skip everything else, but I'm especially looking forward to seeing my son. His bronzed skin is only a small reminder of how I've missed him being here with me in England. He seems to really like Alessandro, so there is that. It's hard to trust another man with your son's protection. 

When the tea is finished, Potter pours us each a cup, and I have to admit that his tea is much better than mine. Silly as it may seem, that first sip really sets the tone for my day. Breakfast is normally a quiet affair for me, but I find myself wanting to chat now that I have someone sitting next to me. Since Potter seems incapable of performing two early morning miracles, I break the silence. 

"You surprised me last night," I say, spreading an even line of orange marmalade over a toast triangle.

He smoothes down his tie before placing a napkin in his lap. I find it oddly charming that he's on his best behaviour with me. I'm certain he doesn't do this at home.

"How so?" he asks.

I don't know how to phrase this without making Potter sound like a homophobic arse. "That you enjoy men. It's just that you seemed so uptight at my suggestive banter before. And well, that thing you do with your tongue, I--" My cheeks heat. I'm blushing. I'm actually blushing at the thought of Potter's tongue performing that swirling manoeuvre. 

Potter smiles into his teacup. "First of all, Malfoy--"

I interrupt for just a moment. "Call me, Draco. You did last night, and I think I like when you do."

Potter smiles. I can tell he likes this arrangement almost as much as I do. "All right. First of all, _Draco_ , I don't like men. Or women. I like _people_. We're the sum of all of our parts, not just our genitalia. If I seemed jumpy, it was because I was struggling with my own feelings. That, and the fact that this isn't a good time for both of us given the situation of our being together." 

I nod in agreement and motion for him to continue.

"Secondly, don't get any ideas about stealing that tongue swirly manoeuvre. That was taught to me by a very special person."

I try for carefree laughter. "Your Tengu, eh? You're very protective of him. Or her. Or whichever."

Potter doesn't specify gender. He doesn't specify _anything_ further, in fact. 

"I'd like to keep it that way, please," he says.

I drop the subject. Again. "What are your plans for tonight?" 

Finished eating, Potter sets his napkin down on his plate. "Ginny's owled. She's bringing the kids home early. We're having dinner tomorrow at my home. What about you?"

"Astoria's bringing Scorpius by the manor for dinner tomorrow. Not much else beyond that. Father will sit and stew in his chair, nursing a snifter of brandy. Mother will insist he join the living. I expect she'll barrage me with questions as well. She's become nosy about my bedfellows. Care to pop on over and give the both of them heart attacks?" I'm kidding, of course. About the heart attacks, I mean, not Potter's stopping by.

Potter could say any number of rotten things about my father, and he'd be well within his rights. He doesn't, though, opting to take the high road. "Not doable, but you're welcome to come by for dessert later with Scorpius. I know Albus would like that."

I have the gifts for Potter's children to bring over, so it works out nicely. "Yeah, I'd like that," I say.

Potter stands, and I move to do so with him. He motions for me to stay put, though. Instead, he walks around to my chair and kisses me on the cheek. His jaw is dark and prickly with stubble. "See you later?"

This has been a very pleasant twenty-four hours, and it shows in my voice. "Absolutely."

Potter Disapparates, and I'm left sated on any number of levels. I've forgotten what it feels like to have a special someone kiss me goodbye and mean it. True, I'm attracted to powerful individuals, but I'd feel just as safe around Potter if he were a wandmaker or a broom salesman. He's an Auror, however. One with admirable vulnerabilities. And these two particulars combined make me positively weak in the knees. 

Of course, it doesn't hurt that he's aces at role-playing an Arithmancer.

I do so love when he puts his one in my three.

(| M & S |) 

By eight p.m., Potter's home is a welcome reprieve. That I'm delivering presents to Potter's children proves an interesting alibi. My mother smiles graciously, but my father responds by leaving the room for his study. I make a quick trip to my office to try and persuade Severus to talk some sense into my father. If I know Severus, he'll couch-trip my father from his portrait cleverly over a game of wizard's chess. Bare bones, my father is really a simple man at heart. He wants everyone to appeal to him and him alone. Unfortunately, no one is willing to do that anymore.

Dean Thomas answers the door and we exchange pleasantries. The Weaselette doesn't exactly look thrilled to see me, but she's easy enough to ignore. I expect she'll be leaving soon enough anyway. Potter meets me at the door, and I present my Mokeskin pouch. Inside are the gifts I've created special for James, Albus and Lily. One tap to each gift, and they're regulation size again. There's an orchestra of applause that makes this toy maestro well pleased. 

Potter is absolutely beside himself with holiday merriment, and my heart swells a little. I know he's had a rotten childhood. That he could find joy again in the season is due largely in part to his children. Scorpius brightens upon seeing Albus, so I usher him along to play upstairs. The adults adjourn to the kitchen for dessert.

After a bout of stilted conversation, Weasley and Thomas leave promptly after tea and petit fours. They mention something about making the rounds and stopping by later to pick up Potter's children. They'll be back at the Weasley's for Boxing Day, and I've gleefully declined the invitation to join them. I have a hard time imagining myself socialising with gingers. I'm doubtful I'll ever be at that stage, but stranger things have happened. 

I'm looking forward to an uneventful evening, but that doesn't appear to be in the cards as I'm soon to find out. When Potter goes to clear the dirty dishes, Weasley pulls me aside.

"If you harm even a hair on his head, I'll Bat Bogey your bollocks into oblivion, Malfoy."

Thomas gives me a pitying look. I nod and smile like a fool. Weasley must have been a Venomous Tentacula in her former life for all the unpleasantness she embodies. "Happy Christmas," I say without moving my lips much.

My balls and I breathe a sigh of relief when Weasley and Thomas leave. I flop on the couch and consider my lukewarm tea when Potter walks into the room drying his hands on a dishtowel. 

My eyes flutter closed, but I feel the couch dip next to me as he settles. "What's that?" he asks.

I'm so mentally exhausted at this point that it's a chore to even open my eyes. "What's what?" I ask after a particularly long yawn.

I feel the air steep with magic as Potter Accio's whatever he's on about. When I crack open an eye, Potter's turning a plain-papered parcel over in his hands. "No return address." 

"You'd better hope whatever's inside that box isn't fragile," I snicker. "Or worse still, hexed." 

Potter places a liquorice snap on my arm, and I nearly jump out of my skin when it bites into me. "The thought had occurred," he says, sarcasm apparent. He performs a full-on safety inspection before he's satisfied. 

Thirty seconds later we're both left staring at a stone and a piece of blank parchment. I arch an eyebrow at the significance. "Is it just me, or is that our missing gobstone?"

Potter levitates both pieces until they hover over the mouth of the box. "Far as I can tell. Parchment's blank, though. Could be invisibly inked." 

My Revelio exposes nothing. I try every Revealing Charm I can think of and still nothing. 

"Killer's bored. We weren't engaging enough before. Now we're being tempted out of our comfort zones."

"With reckless abandon?" I ask.

"One-upmanship," Potter corrects. "Quaffle's on our side of the Pitch so to speak."

"Right," I say, yawning again. I force Potter to the far end of the couch, stretching my legs. "I'll just have a quick catnap, then. Wake me only if I catch fire."

Potter merely mmmhmms, and I stare up at the ceiling, the musical chugs of a toy locomotive lulling me to sleep.

(| M & S |) 

My internal clock could do with a bit of fine-tuning. I lose all track of time when I nap this late in the evening. I jolt awake from the strangest dream to find Potter holding the gobstone in both his palms. Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my hands. I feel both refreshed and exhausted at the same time. It's a disconcerting feeling.

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask.

Potter doesn't even look my way. "Three or four hours -- give or take."

I'm irritated with myself for sleeping that long, more so at Potter for allowing it. "You let me sleep past midnight? Why didn't you wake me? And where's Scorpius?"

"Relax," he assures me. "I had Ginny and Dean take Scorpius to the Burrow. Believe me, he was not put out."

Hearing this placates me enough. Potter must need me all to himself to send my son away. I think I'm flattered. That is, until someone emerges from the kitchen.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Left foot. Forgotten toy. Quicksilver reflexes. Crisis averted. I don't fucking believe it. It's Potter's Tengu in the flesh. I'm staring, and I don't mean to. XX, XY, X-sigh? Suddenly I know why Potter's been keeping his Tengu love affair hush-hush.

I stand and try not to trip over my tongue. Potter stands as well, setting the gobstone down on his coffee table. "Draco Malfoy, I'd like you to meet Hikaru Tanaka."

Hands full, Tanaka still manages a distinguished greeting. I bow in accordance. "A pleasure, Malfoy-san."

I shoot Potter a sidelong glance. "No, the pleasure is all mine." I offer Tanaka my seat on the couch and take the armchair instead. "Your visit is a pleasant surprise," I say, the delight in my tone obvious. "Is it any coincidence your name came up in conversation yesterday?"

Potter must hate the smile I'm wearing, because he shifts on the couch and swings his foot over, catching me in the instep with his heel. I grimace behind my hand, not so fondly remembering Calpurnia's stiletto spike. It would be fair enough to say that she's been the cause of most of my sexual war wounds. 

"I'm flattered Harry-san's thought to mention me," Tanaka says, eyes bright and smile broad. "Tea?"

Potter wants the floor to swallow him up, I can tell. I'm enjoying this far too much. An uncomfortable Potter is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. "Why, that sounds wonderful. I'd love a cup."

Tanaka Accio's the pot and an extra cup. "It's green tea, I hope you don't mind. Your Earl Grey does not suit my palate."

"Absolutely not," I say with overmuch enthusiasm. "I'm always telling Harry to explore new things. Isn't that right, Harry?"

Potter ignores my question in favour of explaining why Tanaka's here. "I've apprised Hikaru-san of the case I'm working on. Hikaru-san's kindly offered up advice." 

Ah, so the fey Seeker is here to impart wisdom upon us? I'm all ears as well as all eyes. "I'm doubly glad I stayed then," I say, taking a cup of tea from Tanaka's hands. I bow my head in deference. 

"Are you familiar with the concept of Animism, Malfoy-san?"

It's time for me to show off a little, I think. "Isn't that the Shintoist belief that souls or spirits exist, not only in humans, but also in other animals, plants, rocks and naturally occurring phenomena?"

"That is correct," Tanaka says. "That gobstone and that piece of paper, made from wood pulp, both have kami. I informed Harry-san that the spirits might communicate with him and reveal their secrets, but he is having difficulty freeing his mind of distractions. Might you be able to help him?"

I regard Tanaka over the rim of my teacup. "I will certainly try."

Tanaka unwittingly offers some helpful suggestions. "Joint meditation. Exercise. Massage therapy."

"Nothing's worked so far," Potter argues.

Tut tut, such a pessimist is he, I muse. "I might have a suggestion or two of my own," I propose.

Tanaka finishes what's left in the teacup before standing. "Excellent. Then I leave Harry-san in good hands."

Tanaka doesn't know the half of it. "You are too kind," I say, rising from my seat. "You won't stay a bit longer? Regale us with some Tengu history?"

I glance over at Potter. He's mentally somewhere else. No wonder their romance didn't work out. I would've kicked the rude bastard to the kerb myself. It's up to me to prove there are at least some of us present with manners. I turn to Tanaka and offer a gesture of apology.

"Perhaps another time. I should leave Harry-san to concentrate."

"We shall look forward to it," I say, speaking also for the mute Potter. We bow our goodbyes and then Tanaka Floos out. 

I thwack Potter on the back of his head, knocking his glasses askew. "You couldn't have said goodbye and thanks?"

Potter narrows his eyes at me. "I did. That and more." He points to his temple with an index finger. _And you weren't even aware,_ he finishes inside my head.

I collapse with a growl in his armchair. Potter resumes his stone fondling. "How long?" I ask.

Potter closes his eyes. "As long as it takes." 

I endow myself with yesterday's _Prophet_ and three issues of _Quidditch Quarterly_. I can see I'm in for a long morning. 

Two hours later, I still haven't heard a peep from Potter. I busy myself with the last of the three QQs. Strangely enough, there's an article about the Tengu and its players. This sheds a lot of light on Tanaka. I surmise that Tanaka's a part of the Japanese subculture visual kei. Gender roles are considered unimportant. So, this is how Potter discovered his bisexuality? He fell in love with a person and not their parts. I smile to myself at the thought.

Now if only he could get on with his rock talk.

I sigh in exasperation. "Anything, Harry? I'm losing the will to live here. Seriously."

Potter removes his glasses and scrubs at his face. His voice is like the white flag of surrender. "I give up. I'm a failure."

I roll my eyes when he's not looking. We all know Potter's not a failure, least of all Potter. "Well, now you're just being melodramatic. You’re not a failure. Your mind is off and running in all directions. The answers we seek need coaxing in another way." My face brightens, and I offer Potter a hand up. "A much more enjoyable way."

Potter's bedroom is spacious. And his bed? His bed is so awe-inspiring, it could officially be declared a landmark. There's even a decorative headboard I plan to make full use of. Potter gets his answers. I get off. It's almost criminal how beneficial this arrangement is. 

Potter undresses while I thoroughly work myself over with scented oil. I lie on my back and spread my legs wide, offering up a nice display of slick fingers plunging in and out of my arsehole. Honestly, I could tease myself and do this all night. Fingers, toys, tongues, cocks. I love the feeling of being filled and stretched over and over. I feel a twinge of embarrassment every time I fixate on this. I wonder if Potter feels similarly when he slips a finger or two inside himself. I have to still the movement of my fingers a moment just thinking about Potter's arse. From the cut of his trousers to the way his cheeks dimple when he bears down or barrels into me. Fuck. I let out a pathetic sob, and Potter takes this to mean I'm eager for his cock. I swallow around the apple in my throat when he approaches me. 

I roll over onto my stomach and Potter lies next to me. His fingers dance lightly over the knobs of my spine. My thighs part and my knees bend as I draw my legs upward. I grind my aching cock against the duvet, seeking as much friction as I can find.

"Ride me," Potter says, his voice gruff with want. "I want to see your face crumble in pleasure."

It's all I can do not to reach a hand underneath me and stroke myself for his enjoyment. I like being watched as much as I like being fucked. I love Potter's eyes on me. I roll over again, and he slips underneath me. I straddle his waist and sit back on my haunches, running a hand down his chest. Fuck, he's beautiful all wide-eyed and watching me. His hand trembles around his cock he's so strung out on me. When I can't stand the wait any longer, I position myself over his cock and open myself up for him. I impale myself slowly.

I grab hold of the headboard and sink down on Potter's cock until my arse cheeks strike his thighs. I lift up a bit quicker and then slide back down, establishing a rhythm with Potter's own hip rolls. He has me so wound up that I'm not going to last long. He steadies my movements with one hand and takes my cock in his other hand. His thumb brushes hotly against my slit, and I clench around his cock. I move faster, the burn in my thighs mingling with the pleasure.

"You're fucking beautiful like this," he says.

I can't hold it together anymore. I cry out his name in a dizzying blur. I give Potter exactly what he craves when I fall to pieces. Pearly-white ropes stripe his chest. My legs feel leaden, but I keep moving up and down on his cock until I feel him come inside me. His whole body trembles beneath mine, and I watch in delight as his chest hitches and the corded muscles in his shoulders pull taut and surface. When he stills, I lift my hips and lean back, helping him pull out of me. Behind me, his toes are so curled, he looks hard pressed to uncurl them. I can see their bend in the crimson crease of his socks. I'm certain he forgot to take them off, but I idly wonder if he knew about my socks during sex fetish. I collapse beside him sated.

"How do you f--?"

Potter slides out of bed so quickly, I finish my sentence to his retreating backside. He must be on to something.

So much for a little post-sex downtime. I follow behind with a box of tissues. 

When I meet him in the sitting room, he's holding the gobstone in both hands. His eyes are closed, and he's deep in concentration. I know better than to disturb him so I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

His eyes finally flutter open. "Wentworth is our mastermind."

Somehow, I think I knew it was him, the duplicitous bastard. I'm equal parts angered and relieved. For a nerdy git, I'm actually quite fond of Sutcliffe. And Calpurnia? Sometimes I agree I need to be struck. It keeps me grounded. My eyes narrow when I come back to Wentworth. "Are you sure?" I ask. 

Potter nods. "Positive."

I shove the piece of parchment in Potter's face next. "What about this? What does this tell you?"

He takes the parchment from me and closes his eyes, turning it over and over in his hands. I pace like a caged beast. I'm not the patient sort. 

Writing materialises in fanciful cursive as if by the mercy of an invisible hand. Then, a series of numbers appears followed by what looks like a precise time and date. It's fucking today, Boxing Day.

Hopeful for more, I look for signs writ on Potter's face. He shakes his head. "That's all I was able to discern from the voice."

"Let me have a look," I say, motioning for the parchment. Potter hands it to me and peers over my shoulder. I can feel the warmth radiating off his naked skin, and what I really want to do is crawl back into bed with him, not solve mysteries. 

I look up at him with a gleam in my eye. "These are Floo coordinates. Wentworth wants us to meet him here. The gauntlet's been flung."

Potter looks apprehensive. "It might be a trap. I should call for backup."

"We have to do this alone, Harry," I say. "And we need to move now. Arrive there before the specified time if we've any hope of catching him."

Potter stares at me a moment like he wants to tell me something. My facial expressions tell him there isn't time.

We dress, we kiss and then we leave. Somewhere, in that chain of events, I pray for our safe return.

(| M & S |) 

I might've known it would end here, like this. We arrive in a posh neighbourhood in Rugby at the home of Hambleighs founders, Holbrook and Hortensia Pennyapple. They're nowhere to be found so I presume them dead. It's just a question of where their bodies are. I suggest we separate to cover more ground, but Potter insists we stay together. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Potter was a bit sweet on me. It's rather nauseating in an endearing way.

We finally find the Pennyapples in their ballroom, and to my shock they're still alive. They've been bound and gagged and denied little movement. They look beyond relieved that the cavalry's arrived, even with me as its second in command. I move to untie them while Potter covers me. 

"Ah ah ah, not so fast, Malfoy." The voice is unmistakably his. He emerges through a doorway, wand poised for spellcasting. It's Wentworth Polyjuiced as Potter. His face darkens upon seeing mine, and I don't ever want to imagine the evil Potter could unleash if he went rogue. It sends a shiver down my spine.

"Wentworth, you poisonous snake! How dare you do this to me!"

Wentworth smirks, and it doesn't suit Potter's face at all the way he does so. "Takes one to know one, Malfoy. Join us, Potter. I know you're lying in wait. Come in with both your hands raised, or the Pennyapples die horribly."

"Why?" I demand. "Why would you do this to me? To us? To the company you helped build with me?" This hurts me more than I care to admit, and I have to bite down on my lip to maintain calm.

Potter comes in slowly, hands raised. 

"Both of you drop your wands and kick them over to me."

We comply. _My_ Potter and I exchange looks. A plan's forming in his head, I can tell as much. 

" _Both_ your wands, Potter. I know you can double-cast." 

Potter drops his second wand and kicks it over. All of them are snapped like twigs. 

"As to your why, Malfoy," Wentworth begins. "Because I could. Because you allowed me to. Because you extended your trust like a fool. I took advantage."

I'm so angry I'm spitting fire like the dragon that I am. My hands clench into fists. "You're a bastard, Wentworth. You're going to get yours. Maybe not today, but one day."

Wentworth's laugh is brittle. "Like your family got theirs?"

Only out of restrained and excruciating will do I stay put. Well, that and not wanting to die prematurely. "And what now?"

"We all die in a blaze of glory. I'm not above paying for my sins, Malfoy. Unlike you." Wentworth turns to Potter and casts a Silencing Charm on him. "And now, I'm going to kill your boy hero. I'll let you imagine his screams rather than hear them."

I stiffen at the thought of Potter dying unpleasantly when I feel a poke at my back. Of course, I think, forcing my smile away. I'm still carrying the second wand Potter gave to me to practise sparring. I just need to reach for it discreetly without attracting attention. I need a diversion. I broadcast the thought to Potter, leave it vulnerable and lying there for him to Legilimens. 

_I need you._ I don't realise then that I mean it so many different ways.

Without hesitation, Potter head-butts Wentworth. They wrestle to the ground and both scrabble for Wentworth's wand. I can't tell them apart now.

My hand inches for the second wand, but it's shaking too badly. I can't make the wrong guess. I can't lose Potter.

A single tear tracks my cheek. And then I hear it so clearly in my head. 

_I need you, too, Draco. You can do this. Wentworth's the one on top._

Reaching around, I pluck the wand from out of a back pocket. I concentrate all my effort, all my strength to one objective. I think _and_ act at the same time.

I Expelliarmus Wentworth's wand and throw a Body-Bind curse his way when Potter kicks him off. Potter crawls out of the way to safety. He gets to his feet and races over to me. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," I say, voice tremulous. Potter and I cross to Wentworth. He looks up at us unblinkingly, impossible fury in his eyes. I'll see him rot in Azkaban for this. But not before I grind a boot heel to his groin. I may be above a Cruciatus, but I am not above inflicting some pain to his balls.

"You did it," Potter says. "You fucking did it, Draco." 

"Yeah, I guess I did. Didn't I?" I say. I blow at the tip of my wand like it's a smoking gun. 

Potter smiles at me, and it warms me through and through like sunshine on my back. "There was never a doubt in my mind."

I take his face in my hands and kiss him hard. He breaks the kiss so he can call for back-up, and I want to slug him. Doesn't Potter know he's all mine now?

He has that look in his eyes again, like he wants to tell me something, but we're interrupted when the Auror corps arrives. I place a finger to his lips and mouth the word _later._

I can hardly wait.

(| M & S |) 

Potter brings me espresso from Steam and about a dozen copies of the _Prophet_. Now that my name's been cleared, orders have been flying in from all over the world. I'll be so busy until next Christmas, I won't know what to do with myself. I should consider raises and acquiring more help, but Severus vetoes the idea with a sneer. He believes a man should labour for a day's pay. And while I share his sentiment, I enjoy the idea of crossing him now and then. I increase salaries and hire ten new employees much to his chagrin. He'll live, metaphorically speaking.

"So, let me see if I have this right. Wentworth originally sent parcels to three of my perspective customers with shrunken versions of the murder weapons. The letters he enclosed were imbued with an Imperious Curse so others would do his bidding?"

Potter nods in agreement. "But like all megalomaniacs, he became unhappy at others taking the credit for his work, so he saved the last two murders for himself, Polyjuiced as yours truly."

"And he stole hair from us both for that purpose."

Potter nods again, sipping his coffee.

"That seems like entirely too much work," I add. 

"He probably didn't count on us being as adept as we were. That's a common mistake with first-time offenders." Potter winks at me before he starts. "Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you something." He retrieves a small parcel from his pocket and resizes it with a spell. 

"What's this?" I ask, taking it.

"Just open it."

"But I didn't get you anything."

"Draco, just open it."

I tear open the wrappings and find, tucked neatly in tissue, a catalogue and a certificate for two wands from Shostakovich. 

"Harry, I-- You didn't-- I mean-- I don't--"

Potter kisses my cheek. "Just say thank you, Draco."

"Thank you," I say.

Potter hands me the card. I'd almost forgotten that part. I open it up and read it to myself.

_His hands were like fire. They could create. They could destroy. But seldom what they touched did they leave the same._

"That's beautiful, Harry. Did you write this?"

"Nah," he says, grinning. "It's an Asian proverb. Thought you'd like it."

"I do," I say, and I reach for him. He clambers into my arms. "Tell me what you were going to tell me earlier."

Potter opens his mouth to speak just as the bell to my shoppe peals. Someone's come in. I sigh in annoyance and leave Potter in my office. 

A wizard as old as Dumbledore steps inside. He has snow-white hair and a beard to match. He relies on a walking staff for support, the end adorned in a globe I can see myself in. 

"May I help you?" I ask. 

The old man picks up one of my wares and examines it. "Not bad, not bad," he says, more to himself than to me. "The craftsmanship may even rival that of my elves."

The egoist in me surfaces. "Of course it is. Now look, sir, if you’re here for nothing more than critique, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He stares at me over the tops of his glasses and fixes me with a discerning look. "Now now, young man, there's room enough for the both of us."

Dying for Potter's secret, I hold open the door for this joker. Any day but today, I think. Any time but now. The old man returns the toy to its proper place on my shelf. Before he leaves, he opens up his hands and a business card flies out, carried high by a team of paper reindeer. The card folds in on itself and quickly takes the shape of a gingerbread house complete with candy cane columns. I roll my eyes. He snaps his fingers, and it flutters down. I catch it in my hands.

The bell sounds his exit. I look at the card and frown, tossing it over my shoulder.

Potter comes out to meet me. "Who was that?" he asks.

"Kris Kringle. Who the bloody hell is Kris Kringle?" I say with a shrug. 

"Oh, Draco," Harry laughs, falling against my shoulder. "It is any wonder I've fallen for you?"

So, that's what he's been trying to tell me all day? I can't move. I can't speak. I've fallen for him, too.

Potter looks disconsolate. "Did I do something wrong?" he asks.

Potter routinely does the wrong things. Says the wrong things. But this time. _This time._

"No, Harry," I say, my voice an octave higher. "You did everything right."

We kiss.

-=The End=-


End file.
